


Asterlight

by Lee_Mix



Series: first star i see tonight [1]
Category: Flowerfell (Fandom), Undertale (Video Game), underfell (fandom)
Genre: Aged-up Frisk, Alternate Universe - Flowerfell, Alternate Universe - Underfell, Body Horror, Depressed Frisk, Depressed Sans, Depression, F/F, Flowers, Flowers growing on a person, Frisk and Sans are NOT romantic, Gen, Multi, Non-Binary Frisk, Other, Sans Remembers Resets, Suicidal Thoughts, Underfell Flowey, Underfell Papyrus, Underfell Sans, Undertale Saves and Resets
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-20
Updated: 2017-01-04
Packaged: 2018-06-03 10:14:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 41,582
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6607015
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lee_Mix/pseuds/Lee_Mix
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of unfortunate events lead to a dying star falling into the dark confines of the Underground. Every time it's light flickers out prematurely, death is marked in the form of a tiny, yellow flower. </p><p> <i>(A multi-chapter story based on SivioSanei's Flowerfell AU and SociopathicArchangel's Overgrowth story. I do not claim ownership of this AU in any way, merely this personal rendition of it.)</i></p><p>[UPDATE - DISCONTINUED - WILL BE REWORKED INTO FUTURE STORY "HOURGLASS OF COSMIC DUST".]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. THE RUINS

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Overgrowth](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/234773) by SociopathicArchangel. 
  * Inspired by [Flowerfell](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/234836) by SivioSanei. 



> I want to start off by saying I do not, in any way, own the Flowerfell AU. The concept was created by SivoSanei over on tumblr. The fanfiction adaptation "Overgrowth" was written by Levi (SociopathicArchangel), and whilst that story has been taken down now due to constant reposts on websites they did not agree to, and generally not respecting the author's wishes (and if this story goes against that as well, I will not hesitate to take it down), this is indeed my own interpretation of the AU. 
> 
> I suppose the reason I wanted to write this story was to try and challenge myself. Underfell is one of my favourite AU's to begin with--the idea that the Monsters are the ones who adopt the "Kill or be Killed" mantra because there's no hope left, and the one creature that is kind and forgiving is the one Monster WITHOUT a SOUL: Flowey. Loyal to the memory of who he once was. Flowerfell allowed more of an exploration with showing the most beaten down Monster, Sans, who is famed for being so unwilling to do things due to the atmosphere he's lived in for so long, actually TRY to be a good person and SAVE this kind human who dies, over and over, yet still refuses to hurt anyone. Such concepts are fascinating to me, really. I suppose, during this, I also wanted to explore Frisk. To allow THEM to have a story. To show... them being human, I suppose. These three are the core of this story, and I want to show you all the journey they are going through. 
> 
> So... I really hope you enjoy. I can't tell you how much this story means to me, now. I just hope you enjoy it as much as I have loved writing it. :)
> 
> (Also, nicknames for the main three: Frisk is "Lil Mx. Starshine", Flowey is "Sugarbud", Sans is "CherryLiquor". )

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It begins.

 

( _ **Always look twice.**_

Maybe then, you’ll find the answers you seek.

Death is marked on your body in the form of a small, yellow flower. But in this world that sings of the mantra that one must “kill-or-be-killed”, the fallen are not knocking at death’s door, and kindness is a virtue of humanity that monsters can only see as a veil for their final demise.

But please  _remember_ , my friend.

Your gentle hands do not bear weapons, just the words to comfort those who ache with pain.

All you can do is show them the kindness in a world long starved of it. It is up to the SOULs you reach with that kindness of yours to look twice and _listen_.)

 

* * *

 

  _‘It’s a beautiful day outside._

_Birds are singing. Flowers are blooming._

_On days like these, kids like me . . ._

_Well, I'm not really a kid anymore. I guess the only thing I can say about today is that, all in all? It's a good day to die._

_I don’t expect anyone to find this letter, or to read my final words. This mountain is the one where nobody comes back from, after all. Or at least, according to local rumours. But I don’t really speak much anyway, so I guess this is a way of getting my thoughts out there._

_I don’t hate the people who factored in my choice to come here. They’re just humans with their own problems. They shouldn’t have hurt me so much for it, but they’re hurting too much to see sense. I didn’t help when I added to that pain. I wasn’t able to be the normal kid they needed. Well, if you can call me that now. I’m sort of past childhood._

_You know, we drove passed this mountain a lot when I was a really little kid. That was before we moved to the city where you could see it from the distance. One thing I found really interesting was that, if you look at it from the back of a rusty truck at just the right angle and ignore the glaring from the cracked bits of glass from the window, the point of the summit almost looks like a path toward the sun._

_I always felt a calling to this place for some reason. I guess now I’ll be able to find out why._

_This should probably be the part where I tell you my name, where I come from, and my story. Why I feel like I need to end it all on a mountain where nobody will ever find me. But I think it’s better that I leave it up to your imagination. Poetic, I guess. I’m going to seek the unknown before becoming a part of it._

_Maybe that’s why I’m writing this._

_Or maybe I really don’t know anything at all. For all I know, I’m about to jump straight into the pits of hell._

_At least, it’s a beautiful day to burn._

_Goodbye. ‘_  

 

* * *

  

**“… Death waits for nobody's approval, after all. Heh, I suppose it’s time for me to go.”**

 

* * *

 

**CHAPTER ONE**

**_—_ **

**THE RUINS  
_(It begins)_  
**

 

* * *

 

You’re sure your mind has broken when you feel the earth under your fingers.

At first, you’re still. If hell feels like soft soil and flower petals, then it must be kinder to sinners than you first thought. But then the scent of flowers fills your brain, and you realise, surprise surprise, you’re still feeling.

Slowly, you manage to stand yourself upright. It takes a few moments before you feel steady enough on your feet (your head still feels dizzy) before you crane your head up and look around at your surroundings. Traces of sunlight barely manage to filter in through the small cracks in the mouth of the cavern. The rays that do manage to pour through shine directly onto the yellow flowers (did they break your fall, you wonder? Or was it them calling you to trip up?). Otherwise, there’s nothing but darkness encroaching around you.

You scratch your head. Hell certainly looks odd, does it not? You probably expected more fire and brimstone. Not in a tiny place filled with flowers that look too neat and orderly to be growing naturally.

You shrug it off. There’s nothing much else for you to do other than to start walking on ahead. Your eyes are wide open, but it does little good in a world where your vision is swimming in an ink blackness. You feel along the walls to guide you, taking slow steps to avoid any protruding rocks that might trip you up or cut your hands in a moment of thoughtless carelessness.

It’s during the venture that you wish you _hadn’t_ taken your shoes and coat off before you fell (although, to be fair, you didn’t think you’d be needing more warmth in a place with apparent eternal fire and whatever that old book preaches, so you give yourself some leeway). The cold from the floor seeps through your loose woollen socks, and the sweater you’re wearing is barely enough to keep the warmth in. Perhaps you don't have a lot of common sense.

But it’s then, you see it.

A small, dim light, highlighting a lone flower in the midst of a barren space. There’s a path that winds further down, and you _should_ follow it, just to see if there’s a way out of here.

But then, the flower turns around and _looks_ at you.

… _Wait_.

Flowers aren’t supposed to have a  _face_.

You yelp and jump back.

“ _ **Ssh**_!” The flower looks panicked and glances around nervously. “Jeez, don’t be so loud, you idiot!”

All you do is stare at it, wide-eyed. You rose one arm over your face in a vain attempt to protect yourself, but you lower it as your calm returns. You peer at the flower and tilt your head to the side.

Words taste bitter and you’ve _always_ disliked talking, but you doubt a flower (with a  _face._ Your mind is still reeling from that) could understand sign language, so you’ve probably got no choice. You force the words from your throat into the open air. “Who… or _what,_ are you?”

“How many times have I heard that before?” The flower presses a curled, ripped leaf to its eyes, and sighs. “Right, I suppose we’re going to have to go back to basics. Howdy, I’m Flowey the Flower.”

“You’re a talking flower.”

“Yes. I'm glad your observational skills are intact. Anyway, as I was _saying —_”

“Wait, wait, I need a moment to comprehend this." You cut the flower off and scratch the back of your neck. "You're a flower with a face. You’re a talking, _sentient_  flower with a _face_. You have teeth and eyes and ** _—_** _fangs?_ Why do you have fangs? How does that even work? Why does a flower have  _teeth?_ Do you have a digestive track? Or a skeleton? What the hell would a flower's skeleton _look_ like? ...And how the hell can you  _talk?_ And what _—_ _?_ ”

“Yes, yes. I get it. You’re surprised at talking botany. Such shocking developments. Look, will you just be quiet for a second, please?”

Your jaw locks shut.

“Good.” He breathes a sigh of relief. “So, going by your … uh, appearance, I’m guessing you’re a human?” You nod stiffly. “That’s sort of a problem for you, then. See, you’ve landed yourself in the Underground. A world of _literal_ monsters. Not only are they, uh, not the most agreeable sort, but they _don’t_ like humans.”

You arch a brow and unhinge your jaw. “M-Monsters?” Flowey nods. “You’re seriously expecting me to believe that?”

“Says the human listening to a _talking flower_.”

You consider his point for a moment. It’s not the weirdest thing you could dream up before dying. At least you’re creative? Yet, something in your soul resonates, and you feel inclined to believe him. Instead of arguing (you don’t really _do_ that anyway), you point upward, and reason with logic. “I could just climb back up.”

Flowey pauses. “…Golly,” he sighs. “I forgot how many years it’s been since the last one fell down here… well, never mind that. I’m guessing all the rumours have died down from where you’re from?”

You give Flowey a quizzical look. “Rumours?”

“Listen.” He stretches out a leaf and gestures for you to come closer, and he whispers, “You’re not going to get home by just climbing out here. There’s a reason that we–that all of the monsters, I mean–are trapped down here.” The leaf then prods your chin, and you glance upwards. “Can you see that near-invisible sheen that’s blocking out most of the sunlight?” You nod. “That’s a magical barrier sealing us all inside. People can fall in, but they can’t get out.”

You think you’ve heard it all, now.

“S-So, I’m…trapped down here?”

Flowey doesn’t say anything.

You think it over in your head. So, according to this... _sentient_ , **_speaking_ ** golden flower, you’re going to be trapped forever in a place where every living thing wants to kill you. People will hate you just for being what you were born as.

Maybe this is hell for you, after all.

“Is there no way out at _all_?”

Something shifts in Flowey, and he turns his head away from you.

“Not from here.”

“So if I keep going forward, I can get out?”

“…Maybe.”

You’re silent as you stand up again, and brush the crumbs of soil off of your knees. The path ahead isn’t as dark as the one before, but you have to strain your narrow eyes to see the way forward. It’ll be difficult to proceed.

But you will do so, anyway. Because for now, it’s all you _can_ do.

“Thank you for telling me all that, Flowey. Really. I appreciate it.” You turn around to wave at the small flower, trying your best to smile at him. “Well, I…guess I’ll be going now, then.”

He refuses to look at you still, as you run off into a labyrinth of the unknown.

 

* * *

 

You barely last fifteen minutes.

Flowey never warned you about the traps.

You fall head-first into the spikes, and the last thing you hear is a sickening crunch.

 

* * *

 

You wake up with a quick start, gasping for air. You sit up, and frantically pat your forehead until your fingers grow clammy from second-hand sweat. The only thing you feel is a small, stray flower bud caught in your matted hair.

Your laboured breathing slows. You look around.

You’re back on the bed of flowers.

“What…?”

You get up ( _carefully_ , you reason, because your legs are shaky from the fall and not because you just felt your skull split into a million different pieces. That wasn’t real. _It can’t be real._ ), and walk in the same direction as before. You’re not as slow this time.

That flower is still there, stuck in the small, scarce ray of sunshine. He turns and looks at you, and surprise flits across his face.

“You’re…you’re back?”

Your blood runs cold, and all you can do is gasp out a stuttered series of, _“not a dream, not a dream, not a dream, **why is this not a dream—!** ”_

Flowey pops underneath the soil and elevates himself out of the loose earth and stands up to your height via his vines seconds later. He keeps your body steady with the stems and holds you until your beating heart calms itself. Even in the moments after, he refuses to let you go until he knows you’re strong enough to stand on your own.

 

* * *

 

_(Something about the hug is familiar._

_… Don’t comment on it._

_Don't even think about it._

_Keep moving forward._

_It’s all that can be done, for now. )_

 

* * *

 

You’re taken in by the caretaker of the Ruins a few moments later.

Toriel found you whilst doing her daily rounds. Leading you by the hand, she claims that she often partakes in daily ventures through the depths of the Ruins, just to check if anyone has fallen through the numerous cracks on the mountain top. She’s made it a necessary daily habit in all the long years that she’s lived here for, she tells you with tired gusto. You can't help but feel the wear and ruin in her voice as she says that, but there’s a spring in her step as she leads you through the various nooks and crannies of the Ruins, all the while showing you how to successfully navigate through the traps.

You ignore a cold shiver that runs up your spine as you look at the spikes, and clutch the soil-filled boot closer to your chest. It’s where Flowey now sits, acting the part of the non-sentient flower.

Flowey promised he’ll go with you, this time. Wherever you decide to go, he'll be there for you. The thing is, Flowey is still not telling you everything–about how you dreamt of a future where you died, and where he was present in your subconscious to meet you. But it’s not because he’s being intentionally cruel (he insists. You believe him.). He just wants to make sure of something before jumping to conclusions.

Toriel stares at the flower with a mixture of hatred and longing. You want to press, but you instead push it to the back of your mind when Toriel suddenly comes to a gentle stop.

“Here you are, my child.”

Toriel stands outside a room and gestures for you to go into it.

You peer inside.

Dusty shoes lined up against the wall. Dusty toys shoved into a box. A small, dusty bed with a knitted throw propped up in the corner. It’s like a fairy-tale home behind iron bars. 

“I know it is most likely not what you are used to on the Surface, but I have done my best to suit your tastes.” You look up at her. Toriel’s large furred paw sits comfortably on your shoulder, and she’s staring at you with hints of long-forgotten hope. It's bobbing on the surface of her tired, yellow-tinted sclera, and you can't bring yourself to look away despite the nervousness in your gut. “Do you like it, my child?”

You mutter, “it’s great.”

You don’t have the heart or courage to refuse her, even if the words taste like acid burning a hole through your tongue.

 

* * *

 

The first night you're there, you sneak out to explore.

Despite the beginnings that lead you to this place, you've always had a taste for discovery that has never quite been sated, no matter how numb your mind became. No matter long you used to travel on foot to look at different places. It didn't matter how breathless you became whilst you ran; your feet wouldn't listen, and your eyes would become filled with wanderlust.

But those days are gone. Time isn't kind to memory, especially yours.

That's why you can't forget.

Toriel is asleep when you begin your walk around the Ruins. They haven't changed since you last set foot there. Bleached, purple stone that has faded to a gentle violet with time; the Monsters that grow accustomed to your presence throughout the quiet hours only scatter when you come close, no longer attacking you. You steer clear of the traps after brushing your fingers on one of the spikes leads to blood droplets staining the cold metal.

Walking past them still makes you shudder. 

About an hour into your walk, in a corner of the Ruins, you stumble across spider webs that make the foundations for a bake sale. You browse around the odd confections before you pocket one doughnut and place a few golden coins in their dew-freckled webs. _Anything that helps your family out,_ you told the spiders with a smile. On the Surface, people were always so afraid of their gangling limbs and unusual appearance; their eyes are kaleidoscopes, their little hands needles that sew beautiful patterns in the dreary corner they call home.  

You wonder what kind of stories they could tell you.

More traps. Running water. Dead seeds clinging to air vents. Lily pads that crisp red around the edges. Maybe it is Autumn underground? There was a large tree in front of Toriel's cottage with red leaves suspended on the ground, falling wherever they please.

You consider going back to that one flowerbed where you fell down, something in your  heart is tugging you to look at the golden flowers gasping for sunlight--but you don't, because there's _nothing_ left there. Involuntary shivers chip away at your spine until your mind forces itself to stop thinking about it.

Instead, you notice a small doorway. The taste of curiosity returns to your tongue. And you are not a cat, so _perhaps_ it will not kill you if you were to follow your childish impulses.

It's dark, at first. The scent of golden flowers carries down the corridor as your vision is eaten up. But you keep moving forward, because it's all you can do. Your hand feels along the cold, smooth stone, until...

A balcony.

The light floods in on the small perch, barely boxed in by flimsy wooden railings, but the floor is made from stone. You put your hand on the railing--wood from a silver birch, you think--and ignore the ominous creak as you look out to the vast horizon.

It's a city.

But.. it's dead.

Every building is grey. The streets are empty, save for the lone straggler squatting in one of the barren buildings. The only lights in the windows that you can see constantly flicker. The scent of burned wood wafts under your nose, tickles your senses until you have to blink repeatedly to get rid of the smoke. Whatever was killed here, this city was the pyre. Or perhaps the pyre burned the city.

"What... happened?"

But nobody answers you. Flowey was still napping on his perch on the sill when you left that room. The cold air is your answer, making the gooseflesh on your arm all the more noticeable.

Something catches your eye, fluttering in the wind. You crane your head to the left.

A small, teal ribbon, caught between burned wood and stone. Beside it is a toy knife, splattered with red ink.

You kneel down, lifting the rock and placing it to the side, letting the ribbon free. It's slightly torn at the edges, fraying the thread. The toy knife doesn't interest you, but you pick it up as well. You trace over the familiar brand logo with your thumb, before you rest against the railing, holding it up to the spider webs in the corners.

"A kid's ribbon... and a toy knife meant for a child..." The words show your mastery of observation. "They look old."

One of the spiders scuttle out, and you know that it is looking at you. You hold up the items.

"Do you know who owns these?"

They weave their answer in the webs. **_Yes._**

Your curiosity heightens. "Did they leave them here on purpose?"

The spider climbs to another web, sews their answer with smaller, intricate letters. _**No.**_

You sit up. "Is there somewhere I can go to give them back to them?"

They point to the answer already weaved. _**Yes.**_

"Are they waiting for them?"

Again, the needle points _. **Yes.**_

"They must be very patient if they've been waiting for someone to find them instead of coming to get it themselves..." The spider blinks at you, twirling the golden coin you gave them earlier in one of their legs, but they don't say anything else. The sight of the ribbon takes you back to when you were a child, but looking at the knife sends forlorn shivers down your spine. "Do... they want both of the items?"

The spider says nothing.

The echoes of a voice bounce around the dead city until it reaches your ears, your broken mind tuning itself in to listen to it's fragile pleads.

_**(Keep the ties strong. Keep away from that which would sever it.)** _

The teal ribbon still flutters in the droughts of the ruins, whistling through the cracks in the lilac stones until they almost sound like whispers. They pluck the strings on the spider's webs until it almost sounds like a caress on a lute, fingers poking through spectral imitations of flesh. The toy knife remains stagnant, like the water in the Ruins.

You stand up with both items in each hand, before holding up the toy knife to the spider. "...Can you look after this for me, please?"

Spindly limbs take the knife from you, and it disappears back into the darkness.

 

* * *

 

You stay with Toriel for three days before you ask to leave.

On the first day , she lavishes you with the loving attention that you’ve barely ever seen in books and movies, let alone real life. It’s a bit overbearing, honestly, but it is really nice, too. It always has been.

She bakes you pies–you prefer cinnamon to butterscotch, but Toriel remarks that, _obviously_ , they taste better together (and you’re inclined to agree with her,  _obviously_ ), and she makes sure you always have the bigger slice. She braids your hair, reads you books about snails and history, and she always laughs at your terrible sense of humour. You both have an affinity for terrible puns about plants and baking.

The second day, you shyly ask her if you can call her “mother”. You see a small, red flush pepper her cheeks ( _pepper_ , you think, as you cheer inside your head, because you’ve made _another_ cooking pun), and she sweeps you into a big hug that is just a little too tight for you to escape from without gently pounding at her strong, furry arms.

When the third day comes, you begin to notice the patterns that worry you. Little cracks in the surface of the matronly exterior.

Toriel tries to hide the simmering anger you sense whenever you stray too far from her sight. Her hand grips yours a little too tightly when your gaze lingers at the entrance to the basement for too long. She changes the subject when you ask her questions about the outside world.

Flowey is quiet throughout it all.

You turn your head to face Flowey, scratching absentmindedly at a small, soft bump in your hair. You’re still wearing a pair of dusty shoes that were previously lined up with the others. They’re only a pair of brown boots with white laces, but they’re the most comfortable shoes you’ve ever worn. You think you should have taken them off when you slept. Instead, you keep them on. They’re one of the few things that are grounding you in this strange, new world.

“Why aren’t you talking to me?”

Flowey’s torn petals tremble. “There’s nothing to say.”

“You appeared in one of my dreams.” Your reason stands and Flowey still won’t look at you. “You recognised who I was straight away. And you don’t seem to like Mom at all. You always pretend to be a normal flower around her.”

“ _So_?" He shrugs.

You don’t back down. “I think I need some answers here, Flowey.”

“How do you know I’m not just a figment of your imagination?”

“I’m not that creative. You’ve heard my puns.”

Flowey groans and flexes his leafs. “They’re _awful_.”

“Heh. That just proves you’re real.” You cover your eyes with the back of your arm, and whisper, “hey. Flowey. Why don’t you just show Toriel you’re alive?”

His voice is barely above a whisper. “… It’s better this way.”

“…Huh?” You look over at him, confused. Have Flowey and Toriel met before, somewhere? He’s speaking with a hint of sentimentality. “Why do you think that? Is it because you don’t trust her?”

Flowey is still. You don’t think you’ll get another answer out of him.

Until, he does.

“…Trusting her is like walking through a hall of mirrors. I’m still searching for something other than a broken reflection.”

You want to ask him more questions (you actually want to speak for once, which surprises you), but Flowey is no longer bothering to pay attention to you. Or he's ignoring you to bypass answering any more questions you may have. Either way, he's a stubborn little flower that you've started to grow ( _grow. Budding friendship._ Heh.) fond of, so you put up with it.

You lock your gaping mouth shut, pull the covers up over your body, and close your eyes.

.

.

.

_(Your hand traces over the teal ribbon wrapped around your wrist.  
Fingers brushing over the fraying edges like feathers as it hides underneath your sweater's sleeve.)_

 

* * *

 

_( You dream of that hall of mirrors Flowey mentioned that night. The only thing that isn’t a reflection of yourself is the canopy of stars that stretches across overhead, and the yellow flower petals that hang suspended in front of you. When you reach up to try and touch the stars, something makes your hand bounce back. A glass ceiling is stopping you from escaping._

_You’re completely alone as you find yourself rooted to the spot. When you touch the flower petals, they shrivel up and wilt at your touch, before dropping to the ground and turning to ash._

_Next, you look around at the mirrors. You see yourself reflected back in your eyes in a thousand different ways._

**_"It’s me. My name is **—"**  _)**

 

* * *

 

The fourth day is when you first ask to leave the Ruins. You leave Flowey in your room, roll out of your bed (it’s still dusty, but you’ve gotten used to it), and walk over to where your mother is sitting. She’s reading a book about snails again. It’s the same book she’s been reading for the past three days.

The book snaps shut when you let the question slip, and her warmth turns to ice.

“ _What_ did you just say?”

You feel your confidence shrink into your shoulders. You.. don’t remember her voice being so _cutthroat_.

You ask again. “I want to go out.”

Your mother scoffs at you. “Do not be ridiculous. There is nothing out there for you but death, my child. Now, will you please stop talking such absurdities and get washed up for dinner? We’re having a lovely–”

“ _No_.”

“No?”

You feel your breathing hitch. “P-Please. I want to go out.”

A shroud of quiet cloaks the room, the tension tugging at the seams and making the atmosphere feel unstable for a few moments.

Then, Toriel rises.

You’ve never noticed how large and tall she is until she’s looming over you, her incredible seven feet over your stout five feet. You’ve never felt so small before. Not until Toriel looks down at you like you’re a bug in her favourite pie, and her fists uncurl into a flat paw as if ready to squash you until you are nothing more than a bloody pulp on her carpet.  

Her eyes are dead in yellow as she looks right through you. “That is always the problem with you _human_ children.” Her tone is biting your self-esteem. “You are always so unsatisfied with what you’ve been given.” She breathes. She’s composing herself. “Get washed up for dinner, my child, and I will forget you ever asked such _nonsense_.”

You gulp loudly and shrink into your borrowed shoes.

The words _“I’m not much of a child anymore”_ die at the back of your throat.

 

* * *

 

But you don’t let it go.

Instead, you _beg_ Toriel to let you out of the Ruins. Being there is beginning to suffocate you. You poke and prod at every last inch of her patience until she nearly backhands you across the face, before she promptly decides to take it upon herself to destroy the entrance of the Ruins so you’ll have no choice but to remain there with her.

Forever.

You meet Toriel in front of the large stone door that blockades your freedom.

“You wish to leave here _so_ badly? Such an ungrateful child.” Flames rise up and cloak your mother’s hands. “You are all the same in the end. Do you not understand this yet, my child? They will destroy you out there. They will kill you, and they will be without mercy for you. They do not _understand_ mercy. Can you not see I am trying to keep you safe from them?”

She doesn’t give you time for a second chance.

Flames lick at your heels as you try to dodge her ruthless onslaught (she won’t stop laughing as she cries out for you to go upstairs and be a good child, and her expression is judgemental and loving and angry all at the same time. But you can’t hurt her. You won’t.) until your vision is destroyed when they melt your eyes and scar your hands.

 _“Oh, no—no—no! This isn't . . . oh, my sweet starling … I am so—so sorry. Please, rest easy, now. You will be in pain no longer. There is no need for you to be frightened any longer, my child.”_ She speaks of your death as if she has granted you a mercy.

Your mother cradles you against her soft fur, the scent of fire and ash clinging to her, before every thought in your head grows dark.

 

* * *

 

That’s when you notice the second flower.

You return to the world of the living past with a gasp and sit up quickly. Beads of cold sweat from your body have soiled the clean death bed, and you pat your forehead to make sure your eyes are still there.

You frantically feel all over your body. No scorch marks. No burns. No taut skin. Everything on you is smooth and undamaged, save the small flower that has blossomed in the middle of your forehead.

Your mind is fuzzy and confused.

Nothing is coherent.

Everything is blurry.

“Huh?” Flowey looks at you oddly. “When did you get back? I thought you had gone to ask her to let you go out of here.” He narrows his eyes. “…When did you put a flower in your hair?”

That’s when all the memories suddenly clock in your head. Slowly, you bring your hand to feel around your forehead again. It’s still there. A tiny, budding flower, rooted in the centre of the skin.

You rush out of bed to look in the small, broken mirror hung in the corner of the room. You fail to notice the small tints of red around the shards, instead focusing on the small, golden petals.

White-hot pain shoots through your head when you tug at the bud, and you yelp in distress.

You slump back over to your bed and sigh shakily.

“Don’t know. Confused. Living in a dream again.”

_(Can you call it a dream if you remember the image of your mother burning you alive?_

_Right down to the burning sensations on your back?_

_...Either way, you know it is not a case of hazy deja vu._

_Not when it is so clear.)_

Everything you say is fragmented. Flowey tries to understand, and he’s piecing it all together with a lacklustre explanation on your part. You always disliked speaking. You tell him (in stutters and more sweat making your hands clammy) about your mother’s crazed desperation, and about her fire and brimstone that melted your eyes, and about the large door and …

You're still quivering when Flowey shushes you, unfurling a slightly ripped leaf and using it to dry your tears.

“I … I think you died.” Flowey begins to explain to you as if it’s supposed to make any sense. You can barely see the emotion in his face through your watery gaze. “And returned to your last SAVE point.”

“I-I d-don’t…” You begin to stammer, and your lip trembles from the lack of understanding. Looking over at Flowey, you decide to chance it. You raise your hands. _‘Do you understand me?’_

Flowey tries to smile. “Yeah, I do. Why, did you think I wouldn’t understand sign language because I don’t have hands?”

_‘It’s more because you’re a flower with a face. I didn’t know what to believe.’_

“Well, you better … be- _leaf_ it now.”

You manage a tiny laugh. _‘I thought you hated puns. You told me that they were a cheap form of comedy.’_

“I can let it slide if your horrid taste in humour makes you feel better. But now? I’m thinking an explanation would be better for you.” One of his leaves covers your hand. “I owe you that much.”

_‘… Thank-you.’_

You decide against going out of your room again, today. Or maybe it’s yesterday. You’re not quite sure anymore. Time never makes much sense after you die. All you know is that in the quiet space of the room, Flowey weaves together a story so crazy, you give reality the credit that it’s the truth. There’s no way you would have thought it up, after all.

You’re not that creative. Or maybe this endless cycle death has given you enough doses of lucidity to see the patchwork colours of insanity before you’re doomed to repeat another untimely demise.

The best minds are the most damaged, right?  

Maybe it’s time you started picking up the pieces of yours.

 

* * *

 

The little yellow flowers are a marker for death.

Specifically, it’s each time you die and come back to life when a new flower blossoms up on your body, taking root in your skin. Tiny, harmless pieces of green and yellow, show the number of times you mess up in every timeline and go back to the start.

You think they’re buttercups.

Flowey says you’ve got the powers that he once had. The power to RESET. To return to your last SAVE point. He tells you that every time you die, you return to the place where you SAVED. It’s an unconscious thing when you save, he says. It’s a place that’s linked by an invisible chord of memory. Somehow, your SOUL returns there each time, dragging the remainder of your physical body through time and space until it can further whatever quest fate wants you to complete.

He’s got no explanation for the flowers, however.

You’ve lost count of how many times you’ve begged Toriel to let you go outside. She refuses to listen every single time, too mad and raw from a history of dead children running off and perishing in a world she’s exiled herself from. _You_ can barely recall the specifics over the calling of her flames engulfing your SOUL.

You never blame her for the times she’s killed you. You won’t. No matter what.

She’s just _hurting_ , after all. Lashing out and killing you, but she never means it. You reason you would be mad with grief too if it was your child who wanted to leave, to go to a place where nobody would spare them. All for the simple justification of what they were born as.

Each time she kills you, you wake up with a new flower. Each burn on your back, each claw into your heart, makes your skin the soil of another blossom. You soon notice that every time you ask her to leave, Toriel is looking at your image with more and more confusion.

( _“This is not the child I saw mere seconds ago,”_ you once imitated in your head, in a brief interlude of faux resting. “ _The child I rescued was blank-faced and clean, not a living greenhouse.”_ You frown for a moment. Toriel’s voice doesn’t sound like it belongs in your mind.)

You peer closer at your reflection the mirror. Yellow and green have never been colours that have suited you, but you can get used to it. It sort of looks like you’ve put a bunch of flowers in your hair, at the right angle. You’ve always squinted your eyes anyway, so you can, at least, pretend there are fewer flowers than there actually are.

You poke one of the petals. It curls in on itself.

Flowey doesn’t stop looking at you, keeping his eyes trained on the flowers.

 _‘It’ll be alright, F-L-O-W-E-Y.’_ You sign. You haven’t had time to come up with a unique sign for his name yet. Between you playing knock-knock ginger on death’s door and trying to keep yourself sane, you’ve not had the time to let your brain wonder about it. And at the moment, you’re too focused on trying to make him feel a little better.

 _‘We’ll be okay.’_ You sign confidently. _‘I’ll get through to her eventually.’_

Flowey’s entire presence is nothing but silence. You’re not sure if it’s working. Making people smile has never been your strong suit.

You sit down on your bed again and all but give up on him speaking to you before you hear him mutter something.

“…I hope so, too.”

 

* * *

 

 

( The stage of your death and it's various encores have allowed you to learn so much about the ghosts of children who stood before you.

_The threads unravel;_

They came, falling down onto the same patch of golden flowers. Each one with a heart so different.

They stayed just long enough for Toriel to fall in love with them, and left so quickly she didn't have enough time to patch up her broken heart.

 _She's a mother denied the chance to see her children grow up._ )

 

* * *

 

You bring Flowey with you the next time you ask to go out, but you don’t wait for a response from Toriel. You turn on your heel as soon as you see the anger, and feel the adrenaline fuelling your blood as she begins to growl at you.

She’s hot on your trail as you scamper as fast as you can down the stairs. Each footstep begins to burn the soles of your shoes as her flames catch on the tail end of your fear.

“Look out _—_!”

Flowey’s shrill warning comes too late. Her flames eat away at the skin on your back until you’re face-first on the ground. Flowey tumbles out of his shoe, somewhere in front of you.

It takes longer for you to burn this time. Your skin is aching and blistering, and the petals have caught alight on your cheek and look like small pitchforks in the dark. However, Toriel is crying when she holds you, this time. When your weakened head manages to lift itself to peer up at her face, you notice that her sclera is changing from yellow to purple. As you press a hand to her cheek, she flinches.

Maybe she remembers echoes of past guilts where she murdered you in a frenzy.

_“Oh, dear, my darling star… I am so sorry… I-I never meant for it to end up like this… “_

There's only just enough energy to smile a little at her, and a voice that is begging whatever hope still exists in this world that she’s getting the message. That message that is the last coherent thought remaining in this timeline before the entire world folds in on itself.

 

* * *

 

_**"No matter what,** I will always forgive you, Mother."_

 

* * *

 

Finally, _finally_ , you make it.

You’ve lost count of how many times you’ve lived in this moment. Maybe it’s been the equivalent of a thousand years inside a single time loop. Can circles measure time? You don’t know. You’re not much of a scientist.

 _Something_ in this particular scenario shows change. The flowers have taken up much of your right ear and left shoulder, and they’re beginning to eat up the vision in your right eye, and you’re not as fast as you’ve usually been. But this time, Toriel sees you refusing to hurt her more and more, and something in her SOUL lessens her onslaught until, finally, she breaks down crying at your feet.

You feel your SOUL stutter as you breathe a sigh of relief, and it’s not long before your kneeling down in front of her.

“My child … they will not give you mercy out there. If you are so insistent on leaving, then please... please, beware of ASGORE. Do not allow him to pluck your SOUL from your chest.” You cup her furred jaw and press your forehead to your mother’s. She strokes over your flower-covered wrists with the tenderness of the mother you always knew her as, and will never forget. She’s all warmth again, and it’s not coming from the flames. “But, even in spite of all the danger, I was wrong to keep you trapped down here. This is no place for such a young one such as yourself to grow up--you deserve the stars."

She looks up at you, directly into your wide eyes. The ones that belong to her aren’t the crazed eyes of someone who killed you out of a sense of crazed grief. It’s the tender, yet broken gaze of a mother who has finally learned that she needs to let go. "Can you ever forgive this foolish old woman?”

So, the answer is easy for you.

 _‘I do.’_ Your mouth spells out, because really, you do.

If every timeline is different like Flowey says, then _this_ is the Toriel you want to remember.

Her gaze doesn’t leave your eyes, and she smiles. She really _is_ beautiful. 

“Oh, my word…” Toriel gasps as she takes another look at you. Her furred paw graces your cheek with its lingering, warm presence. “You have the same eyes as a child I once loved, with all my heart. They were all hopes and good intentions, with the brightness of a thousand stars." She brushes your hair behind your ears. "I hope you do not lose your kind spirit, my dear. It will serve you well when you get back home.”

Then your beautiful mother embraces you for the last time, and you breathe in the scent of baking ingredients and warm ash and comfort. It’s then time for you to be letting you go, to walk away from this place and not to look back.

You’re never sure if Toriel does the same. If you’re honest, you’re not quite sure if you want to find out.

Flowey picks himself up from the corner (the poor thing had been flung to the wayside after he elevated you away from an onslaught of flames and claws; you can’t help but notice that one of his large, proud petals is torn right down the middle), and you help him get settled back into his boot. You could try and die again so that doesn't happen, but one muted glare from those beady eyes tells you not to. Instead, whilst the door to the outside world slowly scrapes against the stone flooring of the Ruins, you turn and ask him a question.

_‘Do you know who she was talking about?’_

Flowey looks away from you and doesn’t answer your question. You sigh. You’ve long since learned that he’s never willing to give those up to you easily.

So, you move forward.

It’s all you can do for now.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) - _"Always look twice"_ \- The first thing I thought of when initially drafting up "Asterlight", and one of the few things never to change throughout the story and its numerous rewrites. I would keep these words in mind when reading the story. It might lead to a few unexpected surprises.  
>  2) - _"This should probably be the part where I tell you my name, where I come from, and my story. Why I feel like I need to end it all on a mountain where nobody will ever find me. But I think it’s better that I leave it up to your imagination. Poetic, I guess. I’m going to seek the unknown before becoming a part of it."_ \- This note is one of the few, lengthy introspective pieces we get directly from Frisk's head in the story. They don't like to talk much about themselves, even when we get the chance to look inside their head later on.  
>  3) - _"You’re sure your mind has broken when you feel the earth."_ \- The way Frisk's story is being told--through the use of "you" instead of "I"--is reflective of this.  
>  4) - _"…Trusting her is like walking through a hall of mirrors. I’m still searching for the face that is closest to her true nature.”_ \- Flowey's theory on the RESETs is that each "version" of the people they meet is difference, like looking in a hall of mirrors. Some images are distorted beyond recognition, others are near-perfect replicas with only a few cracks. Toriel's mirror has been stepped on by the numerous tragedies in her life, so much that Flowey can barely recognise her anymore. He's been waiting for that near-perfect replica of Toriel to come back for a long, long time. She's the only one he had hope for in the world of the Underground to change how thngs worked. What else do you think he was doing in the Ruins?  
> 5) - _"You’re still wearing a pair of dusty shoes that were previously lined up with the others...grounding you in this strange, new world."_ \- The shoes that Frisk wore to bed? They belonged to Chara. Toriel keeps all the old shoes of the children she looked after, and makes the children that fall new ones.  
>  6) - _"They were all hopes and good intentions, with the brightness of a thousand stars."_ \- Chara was once the hope of the Underground along with Asriel. Stars are often used by people who navigate in the dark as a way of finding their way home. When the stars are covered by cloud or ash, you lose the ability to navigate safely.
> 
> EDIT - 16/10/2016 - I have recently added in a new segment where Frisk finds the teal ribbon and the toy knife near the empty city.


	2. once, there was heartache

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ( Once, there was an author who wanted to explore a little more on the characters within their own universe, but couldn't find a way to implement it into the story well enough in the main chapter. So, in vain, they tried another writing style in hopes it would look creative. )

* * *

 

**CHAPTER TWO**

**—**

**once, there was heartache.**

 

* * *

 

Let me tell you about the stories of old that the spiders weave into their webs.

The truth, much like cobwebs, hang in cold dark places waiting to be discovered by an unsuspecting mind. If you pluck a thread of history delicately enough, it begins to sing the truths that the most victorious of the weavers try so desperately to hide with other complex patterns.

These stories are not stories in the literal sense. They do not have a true beginning, middle, or end. They do not have some figure with a blackened heart to fight against, nor do they have a focal character for yourselves to identify with, neither do they have a journey that ends in victory for either side.

These tales... are more like words and letters bouncing off of the walls of a circle.

They are the words that people confess to the air in moments of privacy, with their mind unable to hold them back any longer. They are stories of emotional tangibility told within the eternity of one word, knitted into invisible scrolls of cobwebs.

Spiders are the historians of these stories. They contain _**truth**_.

Though, the truth is subjective, based on the perspective one holds about... well, about  _anything_. But a spider has many eyes, and they are a master of crafting the unknowable into something that can ensure they last another day.

But a spider has many eyes, and they are a master of crafting the unknowable into something that can ensure they last another day.

 

* * *

 

There are many stories in these lives of ours. Words scattered across time and space. Woven together, maybe they can make a coherent tale.

 

* * *

 

Once, there was a woman who loved the sun.

The grass tickled her bare feet whenever she went out, and she felt every ray of warmth on her face every time it was left uncovered by the open skies.

 _“One day, when their SOULs enter this Earth,”_ she whispered, hoping the light could hear her, _“I do hope I can bring my children to this very spot._ ”

**—**

**_( Hope is for those who have far too much time to think. )_ **

 

* * *

 

Once, there was a woman who became a voice.

“We have a power that you fear,” she bellowed to a crowd of fire, and she stood tall amongst her quivering children. “But in order to gain that power, we would become something that scares even us. We have done nothing to warrant this fear. How can you condemn an entire race based on what _might_ happen?”

The wind blew across the open field, creating ripples in her tattered clothing. It is the guide toward her new path.

**—**

**_( But she is as naive as she is wise. The wind is the catalyst that spreads fire, and the biggest fear humans have is of the unknown. )_ **

 

* * *

 

Once, there was a woman who talked to the crumbling walls of her ravaged in fits of despair.

“Why do they fear us so much?” She would weep, clawing at her head until pain bled through the magic. “What ills have we bestowed upon them to deserve such pain?”

The walls never gave her an answer. If not for her frightened children, her steel-plated delicate mind may have snapped right there and then.

**—**

**_(Except she was not talking to the walls. Not really._**

**_She was talking to the ears of history._ **

**_And history, as much as many would like it too, can never speak back in words that are easy for their minds to truly understand beyond the vague cryptics of times passed.)_ **

* * *

 

Once, there was a woman in an unfair war.

That is a paradox in itself; nothing is wholly fair in times of love and war, but the notion that forcing lives to fight against one another for nothing more than a few's personal gain is ludicrous to believe the "fairness" of it existed in the first place; but in this word of two races, it is perpetuated by fear of the unknown and the determination not to understand the other's right to survive.

Not a single drop of blood was spilled by her hands.

Instead, she never forgets the sight of dusty ash coating the once sun-spotted landscapes, as she turns her head back.

She lifts her head, closes her eyes, and feels the rain for the last time.

**—**

**_( She is strong because she_ survived  _this war_ _._**

**_But she is weak. She is weak because she cannot forget how to love her children, even on the likes of a battlefield.)_ **

* * *

 

Once, stories were penned down in books and stored on the shelves of children.

Words wound around their ears, whistled by the wind in a wondrous symphony for all ages.

But then a tide of fear spread through the land, and the fires of that singularly-shallow terror devoured the existence of perspective.

 

* * *

 

Once, there was a woman locked with her dying children in a gilded cage.

Life carries on.

 

* * *

 

**Once, there were no more stories to tell.**

 

* * *

 

Let me tell you about the new stories that the spiders record every day.

In this gilded cage that binds them to see the same sights over and over, with their wishes only being heard from lights on the ceiling, something “new” is strange and terrifying. But spiders do not fear the unknown.

Instead, they embrace it for a new chance to tell their stories in words that nobody can understand.

There was once a woman, who loved the sun, who then became a voice, who spoke to walls at her lowest moment, who was then a shelter in a world of war, and finally, there was a woman who lifted her head to feel the rain for the last time.

There was once a woman who wanted to be a mother so her children could feel the warmth of the sun. Then that woman died when her body became locked in a cage in the dark undergrowth of the earth, and any children she had could only imagine the sun as if the lights on the ceilings became powerful enough to blind them.

There was once a woman who held hands with a leader who promised the world to the people they loved as they journeyed out of their old home, and further into their gilded cage to make more room.

 

* * *

**". . . But even those stories must eventually come to their ends, be it beautiful or tragic. But, sometimes, the ending comes into formation when one ventures back to the beginning and refuses to start another story. Their bliss comes from a stagnant, fixed existence."**

* * *

 

 

There was once a woman who came back empty-handed with life.

She clawed her hands into the earth, back to where her quivering children once resided, and now sits alone.

She pens her own jokes.

She listens to her own mind.

She watches the spiders knit her stories, and learns to do the same with clumsy replications.

Time passes her by.

 

* * *

 

_**( Well, that is not the entire truth.** _

_**The unspoken part of this story;** _

_**there once was a woman who arrived at the Ruins empty-handed, not with life, but instead cradling the dead in her blood-stained arms and with tears in her tired eyes.** _

_**. . .** _

_**Her songs of mourning are something not even the spiders will weave into their webs.** _

 

* * *

 

There once was a woman.

Now, there’s nothing but an aching, beating heart who calls itself “she”.

She waits.

 

* * *

 

Once, there was a woman who cradled the stars in the eyes of a child, crowned in golden flowers, that she loves with all her heart.

And she lets them go, and she carries on.

 

* * *

 

There is an old woman, waiting down in the depths of the Ruins. There, she stays sitting by a self-constructed fire that cannot bear to burn fingers of flesh and bone. Reading the same books over and over until the pages could tell stories of themselves. 

She is an old, patient woman. A mother with the capacity to love the world's children as her own.

Her name is Toriel, and her aching heart still beats with the love thought lost within the confines of the Underground.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was experimental, honestly, in how I could convey a little more about Toriel's character beyond what was provided within the first chapter. A lot of the content here was just a precursor to later events that will be unravelled (though I do take certain liberties because people reading this have played the game/watched walkthroughs), so there isn't much to expand on. There are a few things of note, I suppose.
> 
> 1) - _"But a spider has many eyes, and they are a master of crafting the unknowable into something that can ensure they last another day."_ \- This was inspired by the fact that the spiders in Undertale are EVERYWHERE, especially in the Ruins. They're Muffet's eyes. She knows what you're doing, how you've treated her kin. Honestly, I would KILL for an AU where she's actually the spy for Asgore or something. In other news: SPIDER HISTORIANS.  
>  2) - _"But she is as naive as she is wise. The wind is the catalyst that spreads fire, and the biggest fear humans have is of the unknown."_ \- A gentle critique of Toriel. Not out of a sense of superiority, but more of a nostalgic inability to change anything.  
>  3) - _"There once was a woman who arrived at the Ruins empty-handed with life, but cradling the dead with tears in her eyes. Her songs of mourning are something not even the spiders will weave into their webs."_ \- The Underground still respects the sanctity of death. They've just forgotten how it feels to be alive.  
>  4) - _"Once, there was a woman who cradled the stars in the eyes of a child, crowned in golden flowers, that she loves with all her heart."_ \- Which child?


	3. SNOWDIN FOREST

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> we retrace our steps in the footprints left behind

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This might be the last update for a little while. I just want to say a massive thank you to all the people who have given this story views, kudos, and comments so far. It really does mean so much to me. I'm hoping you'll stick with this story, as I do have a lot more planned for it! ^_^ Let me know down in the comments if you enjoyed it!

 

 _( ..."Hey, can I ask you something? Can you tell me what the stars on the Surface are like?" ..._ )

 

* * *

 

**CHAPTER THREE**

**—**

**SNOWDIN FOREST  
_(we retrace our steps in the footprints left behind)_**

 

* * *

 

 ****The unrelentingly familiar sensation of your every move being watched by someone crawls up your back as you leave the Ruins’ threshold, but you ignore it in favour of more questions.

There’s a hovering, golden star by the door. Parts of it are cracked.

You place Flowey down and point.

“Oh, you're curious about that old thing?” Flowey points at it with his leaves, but he can’t quite bring himself to touch it. Instead, they hover with a tremble over the glowing surface. “That’s called a SAVE point. Or... star, I suppose. They’re the points you can return to if you, uh, run out of time in a particular timeline. At least, that’s how it was for me.”

It’s trivial information at best, but this world is so curious to you. Perhaps it won't hurt for you to find out a  _little_ more about the lands you are traversing through.

So, you ask another question. _‘Where did they come from?’_

Flowey raises both leaves up. You guess that’s his equivalent of a shrug. “Honestly? I'm not too sure. They’ve been scattered all over the Underground long before my time. ...Oh, come on, don’t look at me like that,” Flowey scowls at your quizzical glance. “Just because I’m an old flower and I know _some_ things about this world, it  doesn’t mean I know _everything._ ”

_‘Fair enough.’_

_“_ Good _._ Glad you’ve got that down. Anyway,” Flowey turns his head away. “I don't know what uses they have beyond RESET abilities--if at all. Besides, most of the SAVE stars in the Underground are broken or cracked down the middle now, but I _think_ that this one still works.” He pauses. “Sort of.”

You reach out and touch it. The flowers on your body tremble as a warm glow envelopes you.

A rush of something achingly familiar fills your veins, and the will to move forward in life has never burned so hot in your blood.

Suddenly, you’re not so afraid to keep moving forward anymore.

 

* * *

 

It’s a talking skeleton you meet next. Maybe that should be odd to you, but … honestly, by this point, you’re just glad to see the outside world again. So to speak.

The pathway through the forest seems abandoned, so you pick up a stick and drag it through the snow, marking a thin trail that might be gone in the next RESET. It’s only when Flowey looks alarmed when you suspect being followed. You slowly stop and turn around.

The skeleton lazily introduces himself to you as Sans. Sans the Skeleton. He’s not that much taller than you, and his face bears a Cheshire-like grin that unnerves you just enough for shudders to crawl up your back. One golden tooth stands out amongst the rest, and he’s dressed in a thick, black furred jacket that you envy for being on his shoulders. Can bones even feel the cold?

He holds out a hand for you, the other stuffed in the pocket of his jacket.

“don’t ‘ya know how to greet a new pal, sweetheart?”

Without thinking, you stupidly reach out and take hold of the bony appendage.

He pulls you forward without warning, locking your SOUL in his grasp so you can’t escape. Sans then summons a red light, and before you know it, something blunt stabs you through the gut. He pulls it back out again with a bloody squelch and tosses you onto the snowy ground.

“some words of advice for you.” He crouches down beside you. The patronising tone returns in shades. Nothing you haven’t heard before. Still, his voice is growing distant, as the world collapses around you and turns to white. At this point, you can barely lift your head to look at him clearly. “in this world? it’s kill or be killed. i’m afraid there’s no room down here for your starry-eyed naivety, sweetheart.”

If he says anything else, it’s lost in the echoes of Flowey’s desperate cries.

 

* * *

 

You’re back at the SAVE star by the door to the Ruins.

You collapse to your knees. You ignore the cold seeping through your jeans and cover your eyes with your hands. There’s another flower in the centre of your stomach, this time. You feel it’s foreign presence underneath your sweater, now rooted in your skin.

“Are you okay?” Flowey asks, breathless.

 _No,_ you think.

“I will be.” You sob.

Flowey spends the next ten minutes mopping up your tears.

 

* * *

 

“don’t you humans know how to greet a new pal, sweetheart? you need me to show you the ropes on how? i'm sure it'll help keep the _ties_ between us strong, heh.”

You decide that you need to do things differently, this time.

Flowey keeps urging you to run, to get away from the person who you know has most likely killed you a thousand times over. The RESETS sort of blur together n your head after a while. You don’t know if this is the second time you’ve met Sans, or the first and the others were just premonitions.

But you don’t run away.

You can’t risk the flowers eating up your ability to walk. So, instead, you gently set Flowey down on the ground and hold up your hands, ignoring the protestations in Flowey’s expressive glares. If you're going to be killed by him again (or for the first time, maybe, and the other deaths are just premonitions? It’s too confusing. Honestly, you’re starting to wish you gave into pretentious pressures of your high school, and actually sat down to watch _Groundhog Day_ before coming down here), you want them to at least try to be kind, first.

Your personal mantra of _**“always be kind”** _ festers in your head, but you abide by it all the same. Kindness is all you can give to others, even if they hurt you. It’s all you ever want to give to others, no matter how poorly they treat you.  

And besides, you're not really afraid of him. Humans have hurt you more, and they’re _‘normal’_.

 _‘I can’t greet you.’_ You sign. _‘I don’t talk.’_

Sans doesn’t take his red eyes off of your hands. It is as if he’s actually listening to you. During the silence, your gaze drifts down to gaze at the golden star clipped to a chain and hung around his neck. It’s smaller than the SAVE star you saw earlier, and it has a large crack in the middle.

“fair enough. i guess we don’t all have words to share.” Sans’ voice soon draws you back to the reality of the situation. He shoves his hands into his pockets, and glances to the side—still keeping one eye on your hands. Honestly, you’re just surprised that he actually _understands_ you.

He continues to speak, “or maybe you’re smart enough not to trust everyone you come across.”

Sans walks away from you and Flowey (his eyes have been glued to the skeleton the entire time; is there such thing as a _guard flower?_ ), and crosses the bridge. The bars are too wide to keep anyone in or out.

You memorise the steps Sans takes, and hesitantly follow on behind him, gripping Flowey close to you.

“so, where ‘ya off to then, sweetheart? there’s a town up ahead if you’re interested.”

You freeze.

Sans notices and turns his entire body to look at you. Both of his lights in his empty eye sockets are still focusing their full attention on your hands. “what’s with that expression? can’t a guy be curious?”

 _You murdered me when I first fell for your tricks. Now you’re guiding me when I play along with you. Honestly? I don’t really know what to believe at the moment._ You think. The moment of silence drags on until he begins to get uncomfortable.

You remember the old stop-motion films you watched as a little kid, on the dusty portable DVD player hidden in the backs of the alleyways abandoned by daylight. It was always dark, save for the glowing screens and the faded graffiti that could somehow still catch the starlight. You remember the way the character’s faces moved like moulded clay, stilted expressions suddenly coming to life within seconds.

Sans looks like that. You can’t help but wonder if he’s ever heard of _The Nightmare Before Christmas._

‘ _Out.’_ You mouth to him. It takes him a moment to understand (he _is_ a creature with no ability to mouth, so you don't blame him for taking a while to get it).

“...out?”

You point upwards. Sans follows the trail your hand makes, slowly, before he throws his head back. He laughs at you. It's like, to him, whatever you have to say has ended up being little more than some hilarious punchline. The funniest thing he's ever heard.

Well, that's nothing new. You _were_ a punchline. Metaphorically _and_ literally, once.

“that’s pretty ambitious for _you_ , sweetheart. what makes you think you’re gonna to make it that far?”

Flowey growls. “Is that a _threat,_ bonehead?”

Sans doesn’t even seem impressed. “careful there, buttercup—”

 **_“_** **_Flowey_ ** **_.”_ **

He laughs. “don’t get your petals all ruffled up now, buttercup. it’s just a friendly nickname. i give ‘em to everyone.” Sans opens one eye, and looks at the snarling flower in your arms. “besides, you’d best watch your language around a sentry, ‘specially around ‘ere. we’re awful sensitive, y’know.”

You feel the flower petals on your ear quiver in fear from the tension dragging across your brain, and Flowey notices immediately. He draws back, relenting, leaving the conversation trailing in the dust with nothing but an annoyed grunt.

You want to thank him later, providing you don’t die again, first.

“anyway, you’d best watch yourself, sugar.” Sans sticks his hands in his pockets, and turns on his heel to move back toward his station. “whilst _i_ might be willing to give you a free-pass this once for not being so stupid, my _brother_ is a whole different story. see, he’s a human-hunting _fanatic,_ sweetheart.” Sans opens one eye, and grins wider. “heh. talking of which, i think that’s him up ahead.”

The sound of distant yelling and heavy boots crunching against the snow fills your ears, and, this time, you listen to Flowey’s warnings to go and hide.

 

* * *

 

 **Holy fucking**   ** _shit,_ ** **Papyrus is a** **_giant._ **

You don’t manage to hide in time the first few times he comes. He pulls your SOUL into battle constantly,never saying a word when your life ends. You’re _pretty_ sure Papyrus the one who pierces through your flesh with that burning magic, but you’ve not really been able to count on memory in this world. At least the deaths are relatively quick. They almost seem _merciful._

By the time you high-tail it with Flowey deep into the shrubbery (he uses his magic to disguise you further, but it has a time limit, and you don’t want your dear and only friend in this world to exert himself for your sake), your neck is dotted with the small flowering buds.

You should be focusing on hiding right now, but you’re transfixed by the mere _sight_ of him. He’s got to be at _least_ ten feet tall, with sharp teeth and a voice that demands even the dead to hear it.

Still, he doesn’t seem to notice you over the sound of his own critiques toward his brother. All you do is stay rooted to the ground, watching the conversation unfold. Despite him murdering you once, you can’t help but feel sorry for Sans as you overhear their conversation;

“OF COURSE, I FIND YOU HERE DOING ABSOLUTELY _NOTHING,_  AS PER USUAL. DO I HAVE TO PROVIDE YOU WITH EVERYTHING, LAZYBONES? NYEH!”

“aw, c’mon, bro, that’s a 'lil harsh. i’ve been doing a _ton_ of work. a _skele-ton._ ”

Papyrus simply folds his arms. “NOBODY IS LAUGHING AT YOUR _PATHETIC_ USE OF COMEDY, SANS. NOW, WILL TAKE YOUR INANE PUNS AND PUT WHAT LITTLE ENERGY YOU HAVE INTO ACTUALLY DOING SOMETHING USEFUL WITH YOUR TIME? IF YOU WEREN’T RELATED TO ME, YOU WOULD HAVE BEEN _DUST_ BY NOW.”

_“...capiche, bro.”_

“WHAT WAS THAT?”

“...nothing. i said nothing.”

 _But I heard you_ ** _,_ ** you think.

You learn a lot about the two brothers in the parts of the conversation that follow after that; Papyrus is the Captain of the Royal Guard and has been for some time now. Although, from the way they speak, it almost seems as if Papyrus _usurped_ the position. Fairly recently at that. You also learn that Papyrus has hired his brother as a sentry in order to _“give the lazy bones something productive to do with his time”._

(You don't miss the ironic use of the cliched pun. _Lazy bones?_ He's a _skeleton?_ It has you laughing in your head for at least nine timelines before you die.

. . . You certainly are an _odd_ human.

He also absolutely _despises_ Sans’ use of puns in comedy (Papyrus calls it nothing more than a way to “mix the truth with his usual nonsense”, or something like that. You don’t agree with him in the slightest; puns are _hilarious,_ even if the ones Sans’ uses are mainly about death and dust and blood and ash. You know Flowey wouldn’t agree with you. He groans every time another pun slips from Sans’ mouth and he silently glares up at you when you almost laugh and give away your positions).

He’s desperate to capture a human and take their SOUL.

And above all else?

Under no circumstance, is Papyrus a fan of giving people, _especially_ humans,  **MERCY**.

“Wait. Sans, be quiet for a moment.”

Your breathing hitches. Papyrus looks around, eyeing the surroundings with hawkeyed-suspicions. Sans simply saunters back to his station, tossing his brother a lazy glance.

“heh. what’s up, pap?”

Papyrus lowers his voice. “You didn’t hear that?”

“uh, no? don’t have ears, remember?”

“Hm. Well, it’s not like I would expect you to be observational anyway.” Papyrus scans the area with his glowing red irises. You clutch Flowey closer and gulp down the potential cries for help that linger on your tongue. Even if you did plead, you know nobody will answer you.

Eventually, he shakes his head. “Never mind. It was nothing.” He grumbles something else to Sans you can’t quite understand (whatever it is, it has Sans rolling his eyes and sauntering back to his station) before he’s off stomping away in the opposite direction. Your knees sag with relief. Flowey keeps you upright with his vines.

The golden buds begin to unfurl as the snow settles on your shoulders.

 

* * *

 

You walk past Sans at his sentry station.

He opens one eye to regard you, catching your curious gaze, then simply shrugs off the attention you’re giving him and goes back to sleep.

He appears to be . . . _drained_.

It’s only when Flowey urges you to keep going that you manage to move on from your thoughts back into your current reality. You should begin to run away from him, to try and marshal your focus on your next move before Papyrus comes back and kills you again, but something isn’t right if you just leave here.

There’s … _something_ you need to do, first.

Thing is, though, you don’t know what it is.

“liking the view you’ve got there, sugar?”

You blink out of your stupor suddenly, as you realise you’ve been doing nothing but _staring_ at him for the past few minutes.

_‘What is the name of the town up ahead?’_

Sans rolls his eyes, and kicks his feet up to rest on the station. “it's called snowdin. most people there are just normal people, though, so they won’t try to kill ‘ya at first sight. you may get some of ‘em giving you a _cold_ stare, though, so don’t expect much in the way of service. this ain’t the _surface_.”

You snort from the joke. Sans furrows his non-existent brows.

“you actually found that _funny?_ ” You tilt your head, and Sans just scoffs at you. “don’t answer that. just keep going forward, sweetheart. pap’s gotta bunch of traps ahead, though. try not to get yourself killed. ‘course, if ‘ya did, it’d be doing us all a huge favour. y’know?”

Something in your blood runs cold at his underlying amusement at the threat, and you turn and run off without another word. Sans’ bitter laughter carries on the wind and claws its hooked fingers onto your spin, digging into the bone and leeching off of your life like a parasite. It's not long before you start to feel the cold crawling up your back.

But, despite it all, you need to keep moving forward.

It’s all you can do.

 

* * *

 

Flowey tells you that he has never seen these sets of traps before (they must be recent), so there’s no way he can help you out with them beyond logical guesswork. His vines aren’t quite strong enough to lift you over them either (you suspect he gets exhausted by all the RESETs, but like usual, he shrugs off your questions), so you’re at a logical stalemate.

There’s no explanation for the first one you come across. Not even a hint on how to get through it. It’s just a large, grey floor panel, but the very sight of it has the hairs on the back of your neck stand up on edge. Nothing is as it seems in this world, and the panel looks too sterile against the colourless backdrop of snow that encompasses the forestry around you.

Nothing as it seems, hm? What was it Sans said about this world before you died? “Kill or be killed?”

Something about that … seems _wrong_.

“Maybe it’s just a precaution?” Flowey scratches his head petals. You set him down in the snow so he can inspect the puzzle closer (you call it that in your head. It’s easier to solve when you don’t think of them as _death traps,_ right?). “A lot of monsters have “traps” that don’t actually do anything. It’s mainly just to ward off anyone that gets too close to their belongings, or their family.”

_‘Should I just go for it?’_

Flowey sighs. “What is it you humans say? Put one toe in the water to test the heat? You may as well.”

Your pleased laughter is cut short when the wet soles of your shoes make contact with the panel. Paroxysms of shock convulse through your entire bloodstream, and you land on the ground in a heap with nothing but your fingers twitching.

 

* * *

 

Flowey is cradling your head with his leaves when you gasp into reality again, and you’re back by the sentry station.

You blink rapidly as you glance around. Sans is still lazing around his station. Condiments of ketchup are scattered around the base, and they’re dyeing the snow red. You know that the shudders that follow aren’t purely from the cold, and you sit up slowly, rubbing the back of your head.

There’s another flower at the base of your skull.

You ignore it when you see that Flowey’s petals are wilting from guilt, losing their golden lustre. He can’t quite meet your eye.

“Maybe that wasn’t the best suggestion. I should have been more careful.”

You gently poke his cheek and paint a smile on your face.

 _‘It certainly was a_ **_shocking_ ** _experience_ ** _._** _’_

“You’re making a pun now? _Really?_ After you just—? Ugh, you’re impossible.” He’s fighting an amused smile when he face-palms, and whilst you can’t quite bring yourself to laugh, the ability for you to actually _smile_ is miles better than the echoes of the last timeline.

Flowey means well, you know that. He’s explained before (before you died from Toriel by cracking your head on the stone walls and scorching your back with her flames) to you that he can’t quite “feel” like other sentient beings can; every emotion, whilst shown with the genuine intent behind it, is aided by method-acting. He _wants_ to help you, but he’s not got many feelings for you as an individual beyond obligation.

It doesn’t matter to you, though. He’s still your friend.

You stand up to brush the snow off of your knees, and dust it out of your hair. You're crouching down to pick up Flowey’s old boot before you realise you’ve caught Sans’ attention. He’s been staring at you for the past few seconds.

_‘He was looking at us.’_

“Don’t worry about it. He’s probably just wondering about the flowers on your neck.”

Subconsciously, you trace over the few scant buds visible near your jawline, before you raise your hands to sign again. _‘Maybe we should go over there and try to talk to him? It might be different in this run.’_

“Just _forget_ about him, okay?” Flowey warns. “There’s no time to let your guard down. Besides, we need to get going, and _soon_. I don’t know how much time we have to solve those puzzles, and Papyrus might come back to get you at any moment.”

You don’t back down. _‘Let me talk to him again. Please.’_

Flowey rolls his eyes and sighs. “What is it with you humans and being so gosh-darn _determined?_ More like _impatient,_ in my opinion.” He relents, and gestures toward Sans with one of his leafs. “Go ahead before I change my mind and _drag_ you there.”

A grin quirks your lips as you playfully poke Flowey’s cheek again. He tries to pretend that he isn’t smiling.

You see Sans’ eye snap shut as you turn your attention back toward him, and you hold your hands behind your back as you approach him with a casual saunter. He pretends to wake up as you reach the front of the sentry station, complete with a faux yawn.

“something i can do for you? ‘fraid this ain’t a hot dog stand, sweetheart.” He mumbles.

_‘Have you got something that acts as an insulator for electricity?’_

He frowns at your hands. Maybe he didn’t understand the first time?

You motion to sign again, but he stops you before you even complete the first movement.

“no need for that. i heard you the first time. just wondering why.”

 _‘Because...’_ Your hands freeze.

How do you explain something you shouldn’t know about yet?

Sans taps his fingers on the countertop. “you forget how to talk, honey?”

You swallow down the lump of fear in your throat. Sans eyes you strangely. It’s as if he’s trying to figure out a clockwork mechanism in the dark. A bead of sweat runs down your face from how intense the glare is, and your shoulders begin to tremble.

“...wood.”

Your lips part in shock _._

“wood will work as an insulator to electricity.” Lazily, he points toward the trees. “not sure what you really need it for, sugar, but most of the trees around here are wet from all the snow on the ground. you’ll have to improvise. heh, do humans even know what that word _means_? probably not.”

You stare at him.

“...what?”

_‘You helped me?’_

“helped you? nah. don’t get so ahead of yourself now, sweetheart.”

_‘Then why bother telling me that?’_

He sits back against the chair he has behind the station and rests his feet on the top. He’s wearing sneakers with the laces untied. “nothing entertaining ever happens around here, save for pap drowning out all the songbirds with his lovely egotistical serenades. anyway, don’t you have to keep moving forward, or something? unless you’re waiting for my bro, pap, to come back and send you to Death's door as a bloody mess.”

Sans closes his eye sockets (you’re _still_ not sure how that works for a skeleton), and you know the conversation has died.

So, you move forward. It’s all you can do.

. . .

Except, you don’t?

No, you don’t. Instead, you stop yourself moving forward, and instead, you’re soon pivoting on your heel. Sans’ eyes flit open, and he stares at you with a concoction of amusement and confusion.

“forgotten something from me, sugar? there’s nothin’ else for me to tell ‘ya.”

A gentle wind begins to whistle through the bare trees of the forest, and light flakes of snow dust the bare branches that have taken root deep in the frozen soil. There’s nothing but forest as far as your eyes can see, nothing except you, a flower who is a silent observer, and a skeleton who stares at you like you’re an anomaly he can’t quite work out.

“...what? why the hell are you looking at me like that?”

Snow falls on your shoulders as you smile at him. There's nothing else for him to tell you, but there's something  _you_ need to tell  _him._

**‘ _Thank you.’_**

His breathing stutters for a brief second. His eye sockets elevate in surprise. He doesn't tear his gaze away from you.

But _you_ don’t look at him for a moment longer. Instead, you go back to Flowey (who watched the entire thing unfold with a gaped expression) and scoop him up tightly in your arms, before you run forward into the timeline that’s branching out in front of you.

You’re doing your best to keep Flowey relatively secure in your hold as you turn another corner in the forest (it’s relatively straightforward in direction), when he asks the obvious question hanging above his head.

“Why did you bother thanking him?” Flowey peers over your shoulder and scoffs at who you presume to be Sans. “He only sees you as some sort of plaything. He won't be kinder to you later on. You don’t _have_ to be nice to anyone down here. _Especially_ him.”

You should consider your answer carefully. Flowey is open about his distrustful nature of other monsters, and one wrong word could have him acting scared and even less willing to go along with your actions later on.

So naturally, you say the first thing that comes to mind.

“...Don’t _have_ to be nice, I know, but I’ll do it anyway. _Always_ be kind.”

“You can’t solve every problem by being _nice_  to everyone _,_ kid _.”_

You look down at Flowey and poke his cheek, and he stares up at you with an odd expression on his face.

“I know that, Flowey.” You whisper. “But sometimes, a little bit of kindness is enough for some people to change their mind. I’d rather take my chances on that than hurt other people to make things "easier" for me. I think it is always better to be kind. You know?”

Maybe he doesn’t know. Or maybe he does. He never bothers answering you to confirm it.

It’s stopped snowing by the time you stop speaking, and the timeline marches on with each step you take.

 

* * *

 

He gives you the answer again and again and again, the most recent time being when you RESET after dying from being ripped to shreds by Dogamy and Dogaressa. You learned their names as they cheerfully announced their victory for the Royal Guard before splitting your skull open with their axes. They’re _Literal_ Guard Dogs. It would be funny if you didn’t now associate them with death.

 _‘Thank you.’_ You sign to him, before walking off.

For a moment, you _swear_ you see one of his red eyes flicker with a light shade of blue. You’re not sure if that’s your imagination, or if the realities around you really are becoming confused.

But it’s during this particular timeline that you begin to wonder if basic kindness disappeared along with the sunlight for this world. That is because, you reason, nobody should be so shocked when someone thanks them for something as small as a gesture of help.

 

* * *

 

You stop keeping count after the eleventh death.

You solve the electrical panel floor puzzle by making a bridge out of pieces of branches that you can just about reach. You _did_ stumble over a few protruding branches the first times (“short-circuiting” is no longer a metaphor for you), but like everything, you’re adapting. Flowey is helping by smoothing the knots in the branches with his vines.

You tell him you’re grateful. He starting to look more and more exhausted with each RESET.

There are more puzzles that you’re solving quicker with each death. But when it’s not the puzzles killing you, it’s the Guards declaring their intent to rip your SOUL from your body. Their patterns are always the same, but they’ve become a blur in your head by the time your left eye has been eaten up by the flowers, You can just about make out moving shadows when you die by Dogaressa’s paw again.

You stand up, shaken from the memory, and saunter over to the station where Sans is still snoozing. Your shadow blocks whatever light is cast his way, making him looking up at you. He doesn’t look as bored this time.

“something i can do for ‘ya? ‘fraid this ain’t a hot dog stand, doll face.” He greets you, almost the exact same as usual.

This is the part where you _should_ ask what a good insulator for electricity is. Then he’ll get a little surprised at how you know something you shouldn’t so early on (the surprise is fading a little more with each RESET. Maybe it’s like with Toriel; he remembers echoes of past timelines), but he’ll just brush it off and say he’s only assisting you because it’s something new and amusing, and you’ll thank him before you walk on ahead and die another few times.

Not this time, though. You want to try something new.

You set Flowey on top of the station and point at one of the empty condiment containers. Sans raises a non-existent brow.

‘ _Do you have any more?’_

Sans blinks at you as if he wasn’t expecting you to ask that question, which is when that familiar... _something_ nags at the back of your head.  You've been trying to ignore it, but the voice grows too loud sometimes. Flowey just looks annoyed at the detour again.

Eventually, Sans finds his voice. It’s a little scratchy and hoarse when he does speak. “...any more of what?”

You point first. _‘Ketchup. I’m hungry. If you have any more, could I have some, please?’_

“i’ve already said this isn’t a hotdog stand. remember?”

 _‘I know. I can still enjoy it on its own. I’m not picky.’_ You meet his eyes with your own, the one that can still see him with all the colour. _‘Please?’_

Wordlessly, he picks up a half-full bottle of ketchup, and puts it down on the counter for you, all the while not breaking his gaze away from yours. His expression is unreadable. A mixture between… you would say amusement, but you wonder if he’s trying to figure you out, too.

“Be careful,” Flowey warns, glaring at Sans. “You don’t know what kind of stuff he might have put in it.”

His grin twitches a little, yet his eyes don’t leave you as you take the bottle for yourself. “you really think i’m out to poison _myself,_ buttercup? heh, a bit of a leap in logic there, don’t ‘ya think?” As you take a swig, you’re surprised when the substance magically dissolves on your tongue. “that’s a real paranoid little flower you got yourself there. how’d you end up with it, anyway?”

_‘Him.’_

“sorry, _him._ ”

You place the ketchup bottle back down. It’s already empty. Sans almost appears impressed.

_‘He’s my friend.’_

“ _friend_ ?” Sans throws his head back and laughs. He’s laughing so hard, blood streams out of his sockets. Or maybe they’re tears. You’re not well-versed in skeletal anatomy. Either way, he’s laughing to the point where you’re sure his ribcage will crack. “you humans sure do crack me up. you don’t get _friends_ down here, sweetheart!”

Flowey is gritting his teeth (protruding fangs poking out), but he’s not saying anything to defend you this time. That’s alright, though. You know he can’t _actually_ care about you, but that’s not exactly his fault.

_‘Why not?’_

You question gives him pause for a few moments. It’s when the chill in the air settles to ice over the petals on your face when that menacing grin of his grows wider, and the lights in his sockets blink out. The shivers that run up your spine are _not_ from the weather.

“don’t you _get_ it, sweetheart?” He laughs quietly. “in this world, it’s _kill or be killed._ there’s no room for ideas like friendship or love down here. heh, except “LOVE”.” You’re about to question his redundancy, but he stops you with a brief laugh. “heh, ‘sides,” Sans leans in closer to you until you can feel the warmth from his jacket crawling on your skin.

Flowey’s petals rise up in alarm. “Hey, stop that! Don’t you _dare—!”_

Sans whispers in your ear. You’re too frozen to move, even when he clamps his hand over Flowey’s face to shut him up. _“You’re a_ **_human_ ** _, honey. No matter what kind of sugary-schtick you pull to try and make “friends” down here, nobody in the Underground will be satisfied until it’s_ **_your_ ** _blood that marks the date on the calendar for our freedom from this damn prison YOUR people trapped us in.”_

“Don’t _touch_ them!”

Flowey’s vines extend from nowhere and knock you onto the snow, and Sans stumbles back a few paces. Fangs protrude from his face, and he’s _hissing._ The red dots in Sans’ eyes have disappeared.

Flowey turns his head and you meet his gaze. He worriedly looks at you for a few seconds, before his head snaps back around and you _know_ he’s _glaring_ at Sans. If looks could kill, you’re sure that Sans’ bones would be breaking into fragments in front of your very eyes.

Flowey’s looming over him. Thorns protrude from his vines and scratch the surface of the station. “Don’t you dare,  _ever,_ lay a finger on them again, _glass bones._ ”

Sans’ fist trembles at the insult, but he eventually calms down enough, and he stuffs his hands back into his pockets. “wouldn’t dream of it, buttercup. wouldn’t be worth the energy.”

You shakily rise to your feet and grab Flowey’s boot.

You don’t say “thank-you” to Sans before you leave this time. It’s the only time you forget. You’re too busy forcefully swallowing a sob back down your throat.

 

* * *

 

You were reckless when you ran off.

You avoided the electrical panel flooring and more of the puzzles, but you accidently ran straight into a Guard, and you were impaled just enough. You managed to crawl away so that they don’t find you (Flowey’s cloaked your smell in aphids and greenery), but you’re close to dying now anyway. But it’s a slow death, this time. You’re bleeding out, and that gives you time to think everything over.

You’re sure something is watching you as you die. Shadows mix with the overarching trees, but you know there’s more than just Flowey’s eyes on your bleeding corpse.

“Are you in pain?” Flowey asks. He’s trying to make you comfortable, using his leaves as a pillow against the rotting tree stump that is your deathbed for this timeline.

You shake your head. You then peer over at the nearby waters, to look at your reflection. Everything about your face and body is becoming so blurry, save for the gold of the flowers that stick out against the pale pallor of your skin. Your hand gently brushes against the flowers on your cheek. The petals respond with a small shudder.

“Do they hurt?”

You look at Flowey’s concerned expression reflected within the icy waters. He’s taken up a perch on your shoulder.

 _‘Should they?’_ You sign.

“I don’t know. Flowers like these never seem to bring anything good.”

For a moment, you’re inclined to agree with him. Ever since you landed on that bed of yellow flowers, you’ve been subjected to nothing but sheer terror. From your adoptive mother scalding your body until you are no more, to having your skull crushed and back broken and laying on the snow as little more than a bloody pulp, everything about this world has been a mark of trauma in your head. You can’t even convince yourself it’s a dream anymore because the reminder is—as far as you know—a permanent scar on your skin. Marked there by fate in the form of a tiny, yellow flower.

But then, you look at Flowey. You look at the torn petals on his face made from defending you, and the forlorn expression on his face barely filtered out by death’s lens. You feel the soothing feeling of relief that his leaves bring to you as they cushion your head, at the vines that keep your body upright as you lay on your open-casket of flower petals and leaves and snow, and how he’s trying to keep you happy and comforted through it all.

The negative thoughts that remain disappear in your smile. You hope the pair of eyes watching you agree with what you have to say next.

_‘That’s not true, Flowey.’_

He lifts his head, eyeing you with an odd expression. “What?”

_‘They brought me to you. You’re something good.’_

He never agrees with you. But he’s not arguing with you either. He just keeps staring into the water. “...Hey. I just realised something that I’ve never asked you.” The petals on your face aren’t trembling from the cold anymore. Instead, they’re folding back into tightly-closed buds.

Flowey’s next question renders the flowers completely still.

“What’s your name?”

You raise your hands to sign the answer, but they’re trembling too much and you’re feeling too weak, and you soon drop them back down to your side. Have you really never told him? He’s been helping you all this time, and you never told him your name.

 _“F-Frisk.”_ You cough out, though it's so quiet it could have been mistaken for a gentle whisper of wind. _“I-It’s—It's Frisk.”_

“Frisk?” He tests it out. “ _Frisk._ That’s…” You pretend not to notice as he begins to cry. “That’s... a nice name.”

Flowey doesn’t have a SOUL, he’s told you. He can’t feel love like others can. He just goes about his days by method acting. But a thought occurs to you as you lay there in the snow, watching this little flower do his best to make your deathbed more comfortable.

That, maybe, deep inside of him, he’s got the memory of a heart that once wanted to do the right thing for other people. You don’t know how much of him is sincere and how much is acting, but you’re glad you found _him_ as your first friend in this world.

Your vision is becoming even more blurry. The only thing you can make out is a pair of red eyes in the shadowed veil of the trees, and Flowey’s torn petals quivering. This is the most peaceful death you’ve ever had in this gilded cage, but there’s no comfort in the fact that you know it’s not the end for you yet. Flowey wraps a vine around your shoulders as your breathing fluctuates, barely hides a sad smile, and silently, he’s urging you to keep moving forward.

 _“We need to keep moving forward.”_ He whispers into your ear, as the world begins to fade away from you. _“Because there’s still so much left for you to do here.”_

 

* * *

 

Those words carry with you in your SOUL as you blink back into another RESET.

When you wake up by the SAVE star again (it’s looking more cracked than before, but it’s still holding itself together, and it still fills you with that will to carry out your journey whenever you touch it), it takes you a few moments before you go the station again. The feeling of the teal ribbon around your wrist seems more prominent than before, and you're half-tempted to tear it off, but you decide against it.

Instead, you walk straight past Sans. His eyes follow you, then he frowns. A few crunches in the snow tell you that he's moved away from his sentry station to follow your retreating figure.

Sometimes, in this little pocket of hell of yours, you regain a sudden adrenaline rush to explore past your objective of getting to the barrier. Flowey doesn't like it when you deviate, but a more reasonable part of your broken mind figures that, with all the deaths, it's okay to try and find alternatives to going insane. So instead of going straight toward the puzzles, going to talk with Sans first, you explore a small bushel of trees shy of Sans' sentry station.

Time for an alternative.

A small part of you wonders why there is even snow Underground to begin with. Another is dazzled by the way the limited light bounces off the untouched coating of white like frozen crystals.

You're dragging your feet around in the snow when your boots kick against something and you almost fall over. Flowey hurries to steady you with his vines.

"Are you okay?"

You nod. "Fine." A glance downward, and you notice a box-shaped object covered by snow. "Something covered down there."

Flowey's black, beady eyes follow your gaze as you crouch down with him still in the boot, placing him down next to you before your hands brush away the obscuring snow. As it turns out, the box-shaped object...

...is, indeed, a box.

Well, if you would wish it to be more exciting, it _barely_ resembles a chest, like from those old pirate picture books you stole as a child, sneaking to read in the dim streetlights as they flickered over the waterlogged images of ships caught in storms. The lock is long-rusted and moss is growing on top of it, and when you push it open, there's an unmistakeable _creak!._ A few seconds later and the hinges snap off completely.

Flowey's breathing hitches when you both peer in to see the contents.

A pair of boxing gloves, propped against a bandanna with... abs on it. Or maybe the design was originally different--the material, much like the bleached stones of the Ruins, has faded colouration from time. Or use. Either way, you pick up the items and sit down in the snow, despite the chills running up your spine and making the flowers quiver.

"Fighting gloves." Your nose wrinkles. "Dust on it."

Something gives your stomach a reason to turn. You ignore it just enough so that you don't empty your hollow stomach.

"They're... they could protect you." Flowey's voice is oddly shaky. Odd. "From Papyrus, I mean. You could land a few blows and distract him enough to run away--"

You raise a hand up, shake your head, and smile. "No hurting people."

"Frisk, this isn't about _killing_ _someone,_ it's about self-defence--"

"No." The wind whistles around you, and your quiet voice is caught in it's trail. Still, you speak. "I don't hurt people. I won't. Not anymore."

He pauses, before frowning. "... _Anymore?"_

You nod. "No hurting people. Only adds to suffering. Monsters call this place hell. Not going to add to that. Makes me no better."

"We're Underground, kid. There's no moral high ground to stand on here."

You cross your legs and lean forward, grinning.

Flowey frowns. "...What?"

"Pun."

"Huh?"

"You made a pun."

A green flush spreads across his cheeks, and he scoffs as he turns his head away from you.

Flowey is an odd creature. The centre of all Monsters--so you learned with Toriel--is their SOUL. It is so closely linked with their being that, unlike humans, they don't need organic matter like organs to keep them alive. It makes them weaker in all, but their magic is rooted to their SOULs. But Flowey doesn't have one, he told you.

Yet... he's still good. There's something... admirable in that.

You grab the bandanna, eyeing it up.

The hem of both the gloves and the bandanna are held together by orange thread. You don't want to rely on violence to get you back into the sunlight, away from this place so you can finish what you started by coming to the Mountain in the first place, but the bandanna... feels warm. Even looking at it gives you the courage to go back into the fight.

You place the gloves on the ground, before tying the bandanna around your neck and tucking it under the fraying collar of your blue turtle-neck. You feel a little warmer already.

"...What're you going to do with the gloves?"

Flowey's voice breaks your concentration. Seems as if he has come out of his little flustered stupor.

You crouch down and take the gloves in your hands, before staring at the trees, and smile.

More cobwebs.

"...Someone can take better care of these than I can."

Flowey's head jerks up, eyes wide. "Wait, when did they--?"

You hold out the gloves. "Can you look after these for me? The person that left these here is still looking for them, right?"

Silver writing on the webs. A little more like chicken-scratch, this time around. _**Yes.**_

Taking a single step forward, you stand on your toes--the boots you borrowed giving you a surprising height boost--and place the gloves into the silvery weave of webs. It takes the spider a few moments before it can grasp both gloves with it's spindly extended limbs, but once it does, it grasps them like an embrace, pulling them down into the depths of the trunk and into the void of darkness. You take a step back with a smile, grabbing the boot from the floor and holding it closer to your heart.

Flowey watches the entire spectacle with a gaping jaw.

_**( Showing bravery in appearance keeps us strong. )** _

"...We... need to keep moving forward."

It's all you can do.

You glance backwards, toward the spinning SAVE star, and shake your head.

"Need to do something else, first."

 

* * *

 

 

The sheen in the SAVE star continues to coat the snow with a golden hue as you approach Sans. Fear still prickles at your skin from the last "conversation" the both of you had with one another, and Flowey's entire posture is stiffened and defensive. But there's something you need to do here. Something that your broken little mind is determined to fixate on despite the logical part pointing out that he, like so many others, might just kill you if you treat on crosswires.

You don't listen.

As you approach Sans, you find that he’s still pretending to nap when you get there. When he wakes up, his voice sounds less playful than usual. Same repeated response, different tone. This time, instead of one or the other, you ask for ketchup _and_ electricity insulators from Sans.

As usual, he gives you a half-hearted answer.

So, naturally, you give a wholehearted response. _‘Thank you.’_

He opens both of his optics and moves his head so he makes eye-contact with you. “... _what_?”

Sans is looking at you as if you’re insane. Maybe you are, from all the times you’ve died and not died. With all the RESETS, it means that the left side of your face is almost covered in flowers.

You move to sign again. The skin on your wrists are beginning to bud as well. _‘I said thank you.’_

He rubs the back of his skull. He’s not looking at you. _Pointedly._ “i understood you the first time. i just... _why?"_

" _Frisk…_ ” Flowey growls. You gently poke his cheek and smile at him, before you give Sans your answer.

_‘You helped me out when you did not have to. So I’m grateful.’_

It seems he doesn’t know what to make of your answer. He tugs up the long scarf around his neck to cover his Cheshire grin, doing little else other than shoving the other hand back into the pocket of his jacket. You blink owlishly at him, and when there’s no change, you turn on your heel to leave.

You make it a few steps when you hear the squeak of chair legs moving. You stop dead in your tracks, clutching Flowey closer to you for some sense of comfort.

Sans is out of his chair. You become rooted to the spot when he begins to approach you, and you instinctively squeeze your eyes shut with fear.

You wait for this reality to end—

"well. guess i don't have any other choice then, hm?"

—but it never comes.

“are ‘ya just gonna stand there all day, sweetheart?”

The petals near your left eye tremble as you share a look with Flowey. Sans is standing by the bridge, glancing at you from over his shoulder. You tilt your head to the side.

He shrugs. “you said you were hungry, right? you can say you’re headed out, but it’d be a crime for you not to try grillby’s grub at least once before you kick the bucket.”

Flowey looks over your shoulder. “What about running into any guards?”

Sans shrugs. “not my problem if you’re caught. ‘sides, you’re both good at hiding, right?”

Flowey says the words that plague your mind. “Okay, well, what about Papyrus, and all those traps that he set out? You know, _human-_ hunting traps? They’ll kill both of us before we even reach Snowdin Town _._ Not to mention he’ll kill **_you_** if he sees you with us.”

“you’re kidding, right, buttercup? pap’s probably on patrol right now, ‘round near Waterfall.” Sans rolls his shoulders, and laughs. “and ‘sides. why d’ya think pap’s always yelling at me to patrol ‘em around here? he still thinks someone’s messing with him on purpose. they’re always broken ‘till he repairs ‘em. ‘course,” Sans begins to walk away, “it’s a lot closer to home than he thinks.”

Flowey splutters. “Wait! Are you... _you're_  the one who'sbreaking the puzzles?”

“That’s certainly a plausible theory you've conjured up there.” Sans winks back at him. “But the answer to it is a trade secret, buttercup.”

All Flowey does is gape. Sans looks at you from over his shoulder, and you can just about see his grin widen from behind his long scarf.

“coming then, sweetheart?”

You’re running toward him before he gets another word out, and you can’t resist smiling back at him. He just shrugs it off and trudges in the snow, and you’re amazed he’s not falling over with the untied laces on his shoes. Flowey is thinking the same thing, although unlike you, he _loves_ to talk about it. He’s started complaining about it within five minutes of walking.

It’s then you realise: you’re moving forward again. It’s not all you can do, but you’re happy with the limitations for the moment.

 

* * *

 

Sans never lies, you soon learn.

He evades answers, twists the truth behind puns and clever wordplay, but he isn't lying about not assisting you when you meet other people. 

He _does_ help you get through all of the puzzles by disabling them temporarily from their core machinery. There’s more joy in his face than you’ve ever seen as he mumbles under his breath in the results being his victory. You know he’s doing it to mess with his brother.

But he never bothers lending you any aid when you’re caught by the Guards. He can’t quite look at you as your ripped to shreds, but there’s no flinching or hesitation from when you’re pulled into another fight. He just sticks his hands in his pockets and closes his eyes as your SOUL is broken into tiny pieces and Flowey cries out in agony.

He never helps you.

And yet, he never attacks you, either.

He just...

_Lingers._

**_—_ **

( _Neutrals,_ you once snap in your head in agonised frustration. _Always such bloody procrastinators when it comes to doing what is right._ It comes after another flower grows on your ring finger. You never complain about it out loud. You never complain about  _anything_ to do with Sans out loud.

Well. Give him _**some**_ credit.

At least he’s _honest_ with you, right? )

 

* * *

 

“Frisk...” Flowey gasps. His stem has been ripped from his roots. All his beautiful golden petals ruined, curling up and frozen in the snow. “R-Run…”

Your hand barely reaches his torn petals, and you’re crawling toward him when you stop, and weakly, you look up at Sans.

 _‘Help us’,_ you mouth, pleading with the one eye that hasn’t been eaten up by the flowers. Blood is staining your vision, but you know that specific colour red in your line of sight isn’t from your own veins. It’s too distinctive. Too raw and alive to be of blood. You know what it is almost immediately.

Sans is _looking_ at you.

Flowey screams for you to run. Instead, you reach out for Sans, courage fuelling your blood for the one thing that terrifies you--

Putting faith in someone.

_‘PLEASE.’_

But then something blunt lodges itself into your back (not an axe?), and this reality collapses around you.

 

* * *

 

You manage to hide this time.

You’re watching from the shrubbery when the guards come past. Flowey grits his teeth as the scene unfolds and begins to tremble with anticipation, much like the petals on your cheek.

“Lazing around again, Sans? No change there, then.” Dogamy leans on the hilt of his axe, a smirk barely visible through his hood covering his face. “What gives? You never get out of your station. And don’t give us the whole “I’m doing work” rhetoric. That shit doesn’t work with me.”

 _“...Us, dear.”_ Dogaressa’s always quieter than her husband. There’s something menacing about her, but you can’t quite place the reason as to why you think that. _“...Do not forget that.”_

“Sorry. It’s just natural for me to expect people to know you’re the smarter one.” Dogamy lifts his axe and runs a paw down the blade. “So, _Comic Sans._ What gives?”

Sans shrugs. “got hungry. heading to grillby's.”

“Bullshit. You _just_ ate.”

“oh, monitoring my _eating_ habits now, are ‘ya?” Crooked amusement hooks Sans’ smile into a more menacing front, and he puts a hand on his hip. “careful now, sugar. what would your wife think?”

Dogamy falters, but Dogaressa takes the mantle and leads the verbal retort against Sans. _“...We’ve got better communication with one another than you or your brother have, clearly.”_ You can’t quite see her face, yet there’s something hinting at you that she’s grinning. _“...Tell me, Sans. How does it feel to know that the only reason you’re alive right now is because your brother cannot be bothered to give you a MERCY kill?”_

Sans is silent.

_“...That is what I thought. Now, enough with those word games of yours. Why don’t you tell us who you’re hiding?”_

Your breath hitches in your throat, and Flowey covers your mouth with a vine.

“what?” Sans croaks, before shoving his hands in his pockets. “why the heck d’ya think i’m _hiding_ someone? doesn’t that go against the whole “no effort” quota ‘ya seem to think i have?”

_“...Do not lie to me. Whoever it is, they are nearby. I can sense it. There’s a poor attempt at a disguise, perhaps, but there’s an unusual scent here. A scent that has traces on you as well.”_

Your vision begins to go spotty. Flowey’s vines tighten around your mouth as you begin to hyperventilate.

“huh. well, that’s kinda funny, sweetheart.” Sans grins, and leans against a tree whilst folding his arms. Whatever composure he’d lost before has returned. “this the same nose that’s doing such a great job in locating your folks, right? gee, how _can_ i compete with that? although, i’ve gotta ask: how’s _that_ goin’ for ‘ya?”

When Dogaressa lowers her head, Dogamy growls. “ **Shut it,** **_glass bones_ ** **.** ”

Sans’ fingers tremble at the insult, but nothing else gives his disdain for the nickname away (you sort of want to know why so many people call him it, but you don’t want to die over asking too many questions again). “heh, thought so. you can dish out the questions, but ‘ya can’t actually admit your own shortcomings. heh. now, why don’t you two run along now, hm? leave me alone already.”

“Watch it, glass bones.” Dogamy lifts his axe, the blade nearly scraping against Sans’ skull. To his credit, Sans doesn’t flinch. “One day, your _brother_ won’t be so lenient with you. Then I’ll _gladly_ be the first one to watch my wife break that wiseass grin of yours in _half_.”

“...heh.” Sans shrugs. “sure. whatever gets you through the day, sugar.”

As soon as they’re gone, you and Flowey come out of hiding (well, you stumble; Flowey had deprived you of normal oxygen levels to keep you quiet). You’re half-expecting Sans to say something to you. A quip, a joke, just... something to lighten the mood.

Instead, he’s completely silent. He doesn't say another word during your long walk to Snowdin Town.

He can’t meet your gaze at _all._

This is when you begin to suspect that something is wrong.

 

* * *

 

_( "...I can try, I guess. You know I'm not too creative when it comes to metaphors, but... try to imagine these golden flowers, growing on a ceiling that you can't reach. Not even if you stood up on the highest tree branches. When they fall down from the sky, their petals catch fire, and you can see their final journey as a show for everyone." )_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has been re-edited and revamped in the past few days, and unlike the last chapter, there is a LOT more to talk about. So, without further ado, here we go!
> 
>  **1) - "There’s a hovering, golden star by the door. Parts of it are cracked." -** The SAVE stars in this world are damaged extensively. Few of them work anymore. The SAVE stars, as we know, allow Frisk to return back in time to the last point upon which they saved. I've always loved the aesthetic of the SAVE stars and how they connect with Frisk, Chara, and the nature of Undertale itself. Sans wears one around his neck, too.  
>  **2) - "it’s just a friendly nickname. i give ‘em to everyone." -** What better way not to get attached to people than to erase them of their identity? To simplify them?  
>  **3) - "IF YOU WEREN’T RELATED TO ME, YOU WOULD HAVE BEEN DUST BY NOW.” -** I wanted to make it so Papyrus is not subtle in his critiques, but not completely unreasonable, either. He goads Sans on for being "lazy" and "unproductive"...which aren't inherently false. Papyrus DOES offer Sans some means of protection and leeway by being the Captain of the Guard. His delivery isn't excusable, but his frustrations aren't entirely unreasonable. Sans' response, "capiche, bro", is a lot more subdued and muttered in comparison. I'll leave you to figure out why.  
>  **4) - "His vines aren’t quite strong enough to lift you over them either."** \- Flowey is weak in cold soil.  
>  **5) - "For a moment, you swear you see one of his red eyes flicker with a light shade of blue." -** Frisk's eyes in this story are bright blue. Sans' and Papyrus' eyes glow in accordance with their emotions.  
>  **6) - "That, maybe, deep inside of him, he’s got the memory of a heart that once wanted to do the right thing for other people." -** Flowey operates on a method-acting system. He has no SOUL that resides within him, so all he can channel is frustration, guilt, and hatred. The way he interacts with Frisk is a combination of method-acting, loyalty, and honouring the memory of who he once was, and who he once loved. He directs the negative emotions at other things. He's neutral in regards to Frisk, but that doesn't mean he wants them to be hurt.  
>  **7) - “That’s certainly a plausible theory you've conjured up there.” Sans winks back at him. “But the answer to it is a trade secret, buttercup.” -** Did I mention Sans loves to fucking troll Papyrus? It keeps his brother energised, anyway.  
>  **8) - "Sans is looking at you." -** Throughout this segment, Sans has refused to look every time Frisk and Flowey die, except when they both died by his own hand. Sans tries to remain neutral throughout this part. He hates getting personally involved in things that don't branch to his own brother. In his view, "what's the point?" Everything you try is useless in the end. Nothing ever changes. Also, Sans' full name isn't "Comic Sans". That's just a friendly nickname given to him by the local barflies at Grillby's restaurant.  
>  **9) - "this the same nose that’s doing such a great job in locating your folks, right? gee, how can i compete with that? although, i’ve gotta ask: how’s that goin’ for ‘ya?" -** It's a cruel, dark world. People go missing all the time. They fall, they turn to dust, they vanish. That doesn't mean people don't go looking for answers.  
>  **10) - "Watch it, glass bones.” Dogamy lifts his axe, the blade nearly scraping against Sans’ skull. To his credit, Sans doesn’t flinch. “One day, your brother won’t be so lenient with you." -** _"Glass bones"_ is a reference to how low Sans' HP, attack, and defense are. Many of the Guards get annoyed at just how much Sans can get away with not doing. It doesn't mean Sans hasn't suffered his fair share of abuse from them, however. Why else has he not bothered to flinch at the axe near-scraping against his skull?


	4. SNOWDIN TOWN

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Would you rather use your fear the unknown to keep it away, or take a chance on fate and have it walk by your side?

_… “I remember the old stories of a child who ate a pie much too large for them with their bare hands.” …_

_… “I remember the aged songs of two children playing in a field of golden flowers.” …_

_… “I remember the forgotten poems of a child who continues to slumber in the earthy soil.” …_

(You’re not sure if how these dreams came to be in your head.)

. . .

Either way, **_they_ **_**shouldn't be in your head**._ )

 

* * *

 

**CHAPTER 4**

**-**

**SNOWDIN TOWN  
** _**(would you rather use your fear the unknown to keep it away, or take a chance on fate and have it walk by your side?)** _

 

* * *

  

“... _risk?_ Hey, Frisk!”

Flowey’s vines in front of your face bring you back to your current reality. The first thing you noticed when you enter the small town of Snowdin is another SAVE star, hovering just shy of the border between the town and the forest. It seems to have caught you off-guard with intrigue.

This one is not as broken as the one by the door of the Ruins, you notice, but the corners of it are a little chipped, with the cracks are emitting a dull orange glow. You almost become lost in it’s gentle light when Sans calls for you to hurry up again, and you have to drag your gaze away from it to try and catch up with him. You know Flowey is _beyond_ curious why you’re so transfixed on the stars, but you couldn’t answer him even if you wanted to.

You’ve never been good with words.

“welp. here we are.” Sans lazily gestures with one hand, his fingers coaxing your focus away from your thoughts and back into reality. His grin is a little down-turned. “home sweet home, or whatever t’is you humans say. heh, ‘fraid i’ve never been one for idioms.”

Thousands of eyes burn holes into your skull already. For once, you’re glad it’s a bad metaphor you’re thinking up. You don’t want to die by that death (or if you do, you hope it’s instantaneous). The Monsters that see you _know_ what you are. You can tell by the cold stares, barely holding back boiling rage.

Aside from the obvious animosity spewing toward you, the town of Snowdin looks rather quaint. It’s almost _cute._ Like something out of a picture book about Christmas.

(It’s not _quite_ the familiar look of Christmas Town from your beloved _The Nightmare before Christmas,_ but it’s better than the puzzles that have killed you so many times.)

Sans is idle ( _bone-_ idle, you quip inside your head. If Flowey had heard it, you know he’d be groaning in exasperation at your terrible puns) in every movement as he guides you and Flowey into a tiny restaurant, though he doesn’t bother leaving the door open for you. Entering is almost like running headfirst into a narcotic haze of surreality. The warmth of the places has your cheeks flushing, and the regular patrons (you assume; they look like they’ve all got their place and their groups set in stone) don’t exactly give you the best reception, but it surprises you when the worst treatment you get is them refusing to acknowledge you’re there.

It’s an _icy_ reception, to say the least, but it beats dying.

Sans takes his seat on a stool, before he lazily gestures for you to climb up on the one next to him. You put Flowey on the countertop next to you, before rubbing your hands together to inch out the rest of the cold. The teal ribbon on your wrist almost loosens; you tighten it with your hands.

“Not exactly a _warm_ welcome...” Flowey mutters under his breath, eyeing the rest of the patrons with suspicion.

“eh, did ‘ya expect anything different, buttercup?” Sans chuckles, tugging his scarf off and grabbing a bottle of ketchup waiting on the counter. He takes a swig before answering. “luckily for you two, they won’t even think about killing ‘ya. they’re just monsters looking for their next meal ticket.”

You pretend not to notice the perfect timing of Sans’ puns again as Grillby comes up to take your orders a mere few seconds later. Sans mutters “the usual”, before turning to you. “want anything, sweetheart?”

_‘...Tea?’_

“what ‘bout you, buttercup?”

Flowey scoffs. “You’re actually getting something for us? I thought you didn’t do charity.”

Sans shrugs. “eh. it’d be a crime for you two to die without trying anything grillby makes. ‘sides, letting you go too early would make it too easy for me to fall asleep again, and as much as i adore my bro, i _really_ wanna be able to nap tonight without him naggin’ on at me about what a _disappointment_ i am.”

A few of the patron's snort, knowingly glancing over at Sans. He responds to them with a crooked grin.

You don’t laugh. It’s not funny to you.

Flowey just rolls his eyes. “...Well, whatever suits your tastes. I’m not hungry.”

You poke his cheek.

“Frisk, I’m not—”

You poke his cheek again.

“I _mean_ it, Frisk, I don’t _want_ anything—!”

You poke his cheek for the third time and grin knowingly.

“Ugh—fine! I’ll get something. Just cut that out already!” His cheeks pepper with a light green flush, which you _guess_ is how he blushes. Sans rests his chin on his hand and watches the two of you with an amused smirk. Maybe he really _does_ see you as little more than a way to appease his boredom. Eh, you reason that it’s better than him killing you again. “...Does this place do chocolate?”

“eh, grillbz probably has some of that cheap, nasty brand stuff from the human world lyin’ around somewhere.”

Flowey looks down. “...That will do.”

“grillbz! one cup of hot tea, and some of that nasty chocolate with the usual. hurry it up, would ya?”

The bartender is silent as he gives Sans a singular nod, before placing the glass he was polishing back down under the bar and going into the back room. For a being made of fire, you’re surprised at just how quiet he’s been throughout everything. Sans takes another swig from the ketchup bottle; you ignore Flowey’s quiet protestations of how gross Sans is being.

“so.” Sans glances over at you. “you still planning on getting _out,_ huh?”

You nod. Sans laughs.

“heh. that’s pretty ambitious of you, sweetheart.” His tired eyes close, taking another swig from his bottle. “you realise the attitude of monsters down here want humans _dead,_ right?”

"Believe me, we're well aware of that." Flowey looks around the bar. "Although, it is strange that nobody's attacking us in here right now."

"it's a _bar_ , buttercup. not the royal guard's training ground. only bar-brawls happen in here, and nobody's going to cross grillby."

‘You feel like there's a story behind that, but you choose not to comment. ' _Papyrus doesn’t come in here?’_

“nah. says it’s below his standards.” You open your mouth to respond, but Sans gets there first. “and the other royal guards are too busy kissing his bony ass for his approval, so they don’t come in here either. well, maybe ‘cept for _one,_ but she’s not likely to come ‘round snowdin anytime soon.

_‘Why not?’_

“broken pride. a guard’s worst nightmare.”

You expect him to elaborate on that, but it never comes. You opt to ask him another question. _‘Nobody in here will report us to the Royal Guard?’_

“nah.” Sans waves a hand above his head to signal the bartender. “most people around here hate the guards. they won’t bother ‘em about you.” Sans pauses, grinning. You feel a shiver run up your spine. “most likely.”

Flowey looks up, not having seen the menacing smile. “Really? I… I thought the Guards were revered.” He seems more motivated to join in the conversation concerning this development. But you notice that his intrigue is… more than just a casual interest. “People don’t celebrate them anymore?”

“you’ve been sticking your face in the soil too long, buttercup.” Sans snorts. “jeez, they _used_ to be celebrated for their handiwork. nowadays? the royal guards are a bunch of elitist dickheads to everyone. heh, the best times people here find the most fun is just by _royally_ screwing ‘em over, heh.”

You’re about to ask more about it when Grillby arrives and sets your orders down. The tea in front of you is piping hot (the steam causes the few flowers on your face to tremble), in a ceramic mug, and the actual liquid is _purple._ Still, the aroma is refreshing, and the warmth is welcoming after your venture in the bitter cold.

 _‘ **Thank you.’**_ For a moment, Grillby’s blue flames flare up brighter, and you swear you can see flickers of red amongst them. He doesn’t say a word as he ducks down behind the counter for a moment, but you then notice that he’s slowly sliding a small packet of sugar towards you (hidden from the eyes of the other patrons), before quietly going back to taking orders.

Before putting the sugar into your tea, you look over at Sans and see that he’s ordered a batch of fries. He’s not eating them, though. He’s too busy staring you. The nearby barflies are eyeing you oddly as well. It’s then you remember that Sans looked just as taken aback when you thanked him before.  

_Why is it so weird to these people that I thank them?_

You chose not to comment on it. You’ve got enough on your plate as it is. Your hands clasp around the cup (the flowers that are budding on your palms are actually _useful_ in keeping out the scalding heat that would have usually burned your hands) before you take a sip.

The taste settles on your tongue before it fizzles out. You blink in surprise.

“good, right?”

_‘It vanished in my mouth!’_

“that’s monster food 'n' drinks for you, sweetheart. made almost completely of magic.” He pauses. “...human food spoils, right?” When you nod, he shudders. “gross.”

Flowey, pausing from nibbling his chocolate, frowns at him. “At least we’re not the ones _drinking_ ketchup.”

“you seem to forget your _friend_ here did the same.”

“...At least _I’m_ not the one drinking it.”

Over the passing minutes, the glares from the common barflies become as natural as the ripped paper on the walls; mere background decoration compared to the company you’re now keeping. A small part of your heart is tugging you back toward the Ruins; at least there, you would have been safe, with someone relatively less hostile and more welcoming. More familiar. There was more warmth in Toriel then you’ve felt from anything in a thousand years.

But you know you need to keep moving forward. To get out of this hellhole, to see the sun once again. Maybe something else is calling you to keep going, but you need to keep going. If nothing else, you want to keep going so Flowey can feel like he’s accomplishing something.

 

* * *

 

**_("More importantly, I’m looking for a permanent way to end all of this.")_ **

Your suffering? The cycle of death?

**_._**

**_._ **

**_._ **

**_("You know? I've been thinking of something, lately . . . " )_ **

Of what?

**_._ **

**_._ **

**_._ **

**_"That maybe the idea of dying up in the sunlight isn’t such a bad one after all."_ **

**_._ **

**_._ **

**_._ **

_Then you will have to stay alive long enough for that to happen, will you not?_

 

* * *

 

Sans doesn’t pay for you.

Of course, that comes as come as no surprise to you, but it doesn’t stop Flowey’s internal seething rage as he curses Sans’ name up to whatever kinds of deities actually _exist_ for a world filled with monsters. You can barely stop a chuckle when his entire face flushes green with anger. But it doesn’t change the fact that Sans left you and Flowey in the establishment alone with nothing but a wave of his hand and a casual shrug. He’s not even going to glance back at you.

He just gives you a casual " _good luck in not dying, sweetheart"_ , before he’s out the door.

It doesn’t come close to rekindling the emotions that were present in Toriel’s farewell to you, but you’re thankful that he at least he lets you _live_ this time.

Before you leave, you reach into your pocket and draw out the money needed to pay for both of your meals. Grillby takes a look at the glinting gold on the countertop, before eyeing you from behind his golden-rimmed spectacles.

The silence drags on until Flowey snaps. “What?” He bites, frowning. “Is it not enough for you or something? Quit staring at them.”

You poke Flowey in the cheek and frown.  _Always be kind._

“ _Frisk_.” Flowey relents before you get the chance to argue with him about it. He slowly turns his head and glances over at Grillby. Braces himself. Then whispers. “...Thanks.”

You’re not able to stop smiling at him as you exit the restaurant. Flowey’s entire face flushes a brilliantly lush green, but even when he tries to hide his face behind torn yellow petals and curled leaves, you can tell that he’s smiling just as widely as you are.

The SAVE star glitters in the corner of your eye. You try to grasp onto it with one hand, but like time, it can only give the illusion that you’ve got a hold on it. In reality, it passes through your fingers like air.

The same warmth still rushes all over you, though.

 

* * *

 

( _It must have a name._

_That feeling of not wanting to give up…_

_Somewhere in this world, there's a story that still needs it's pages filled to be completed. )_

 

* * *

 

Seems as if this particular draft of the story is going to be tossed to the wayside, however.

Here’s how it starts;

Flowey insists you have no time to stop and smell the dead flowers that line up in the snowy banks of the town, saying you need to get through a place called “Waterfall” before Papyrus or any of the Royal Guards show up. You’ve died too many times to them to want to meet them face-to-face again, so you go along with his suggestion.

So you’re running through the town when the wind begins to pick up as you reach the borders. Whistling and silently howling at you, warnings to turn back toward the little town getting louder in the thrum of your ears. All you do is grip Flowey closer to you, and your face is flushing red from the lack of oxygen.

Through the blur of static ice-pellets, you see two figures standing strong on the horizon.

The smaller one, hooded in fur and stuffing their hands in their pockets, points an arm at you. The taller one nods and stalks toward you with red glinting in their hollow eyes, and glares.

“ ** _Human_** _.”_

Papyrus lifts your SOUL into a battlefield.

“Please, _don’t—_!”

Flowey’s frantic cries for MERCY are for nothing. Something cuts into your back, and this version of your life is ripped apart, much like your spine.

 

* * *

 

“— _Flowey!”_

It’s over. You’re back by the SAVE star.

Flowey is gently cradling you with his weak vines again, trying his best to support you as your knees buckle. For a moment, it reminds you of Toriel after she hesitated the first time. There’s another flower right in the dead centre of your back, taping over the invisible damage of _whatever_ cut you in half. It makes you sick just _thinking_ about it.

“Frisk, it’s _okay._ Everything's alright, don't worry. You’re okay now, you’re going to be just—!”

“It’s _not_ okay.”

Flowey blinks. He's stunned at your sudden outburst.

“We’re...we’re finding a place to rest for the night, now.” You stand up straight, plucking his soil-filled boot off of the floor with you.

“...And then?”

“Then...? We think about how we move forward tomorrow. Not heading out today again. Not trying that more than once. Not again. Not today.” You point to your eye, the petals shuddering from the cold. “Don’t want to lose sight in this eye yet.”

“I...okay.”

You get the worst room in the inn, but by this point, _you don’t care._ You throw yourself onto the dusty bed, Flowey sits himself down by the broken window, and you just listen to the wind whistling through the cracks in the glass. You’re completely silent, even when awake.

Unlike most of your deaths, you know why that timeline ended. You know why you didn’t progress forward this time, when you know you _could_ have gotten further. A sharp sting of betrayal has you clutching the front your sweater over where your beating, cracked heart lies dormant. 

_That shorter in the person in the blizzard? I saw it. It was him. I know it was him. Sans told Papyrus about me, after claiming he didn’t care whether or not I died._

A part of you can’t help but “why”.

. . .

Another part of you wants to splatter his ketchup all over that wiseass grin of his.

 

* * *

 

“Frisk?”

“...Mm?”

“I’m sorry. About what happened today.”

“...Thinking it over is going to disturb your sleep. Don’t worry ‘bout it, okay?”

 

* * *

 

  _( Flowey_ _doesn’t._

_You do. )_

 

* * *

 

There're no clocks in Snowdin Town. You don’t know how much of your time you’re spending as you wander around. You know humans are obsessed with timekeeping. Counting down the days, hours, minutes, until they would die. Humans are the only species to have invented the fear of time running out _before_ you know you're knocking at death’s door. Usually, that fear only comes when you’re final moments encroach on your life.

For you, it’s now a part of the everyday.

Flowey knows you’re not taking any chances with getting any further, so he’s taking in the little sun Snowdin Town has back at that broken window at the inn whilst you wander around, taking in every small aspect of a populace locked underground.

 **“Clear off, human! We don’t serve** **_your_ ** **kind here!”**

...Well. That’s what you would _like_ to do, at any rate. Instead, most places just slam their doors in your face as soon as you come knocking.

All you do is let out a sigh, before brushing off the dustings of snow from your shoulders. Folding your arms to keep in the warm (the shops won’t sell you any warmer clothing, so the fraying blue sweater will have to do for now), you ponder on what to do next. Early in the morning, you saw Grillby sweeping outside his restaurant. He didn’t really know what to make of you when you waved at him.

You’re not going to chance running further without Flowey, and if Sans’ words are to be trusted (or maybe they’re not; they’re like his puns, all full of double-meanings and other cryptic dialogue you can’t be bothered to decipher after his little “stunt” that ended the last timeline for you), Papyrus will still be patrolling around that area. If he hasn’t already, then sooner or later he’s bound to have caught onto the rumours of you. Not everyone in Snowdin Town is going to be quiet at their own expense, and you don’t blame them for it.

You stop in your tracks, before craning your head upwards as a large shadow blocks out the little glowlight available in Snowdin Town. At the end of the town, there’s a house. It’s roughly around two-stories. Light brown. Maybe made of wood, but there’s an electrical feel to it. Makes the hairs on the back of your neck stand on edge, the petals on your flowers shake in trepidation. Parts of it look beaten down and worn, whilst the front door looks remarkably polished and preened. The front of it looks welcoming and preened, whilst the parts that can be hidden are only barely holding the structure together.

You rub your arms to keep in the warmth, your curiousity getting the better of you as you stalk around the side of it.

There’s another door, hidden in the back. The electrical current makes your flower petals quiver even more. It’s corrugated iron, with a rusty lock protruding out of the colour scheme.

 **_KEEP OUT,_ ** it screams. It’s so well-concealed that nobody else seems to get the memo but you.

From the bottom of the door, you can see a dim, blue light. Shuffling sounds of shoes against the floor. Sparks fly. Metal against metal. _Someone’s working on something in there._

Your natural affinity for being curious, as always, gets the better of your better, logical nature. Against obvious common sense, you take a step forward—

_**SNAP!** _

—and by doing so, you end up cracking a stray branch in half. Your body tenses, leaving you glancing around nervously.

It's only after your heart stops thumping around in your ears do you realise the sounds have stopped from behind the locked door.

The light stops, too.

“...huh? Why did the sounds...” You frown, as you try to ignore how clammy your hands have gotten. You're standing firm on both feet as you try to peer into the cracks of the rusting doorway.

Nothing.

Then, another shadow.

“looking for something in there, sweetheart?”

A yelp is drawn from your lips as you spin on your heel, back slamming against the door. You’re face-to-face with a look that could _kill._ Red eye glowing like a flame, trailing out and focusing its judgemental intent solely on _you._

_Sans._

You shake your head frantically, trying your best not to start hyperventilating. He ignores this, and simply hooks a bony index under your chin, grinning all the while. “if that’s the case, i don’t suppose you’d care to share the reason why you’re poking around ‘ere, then?”

Your mouth gapes open. Your hands are trembling too much to move.

Yet, your eyes. Your eyes are still working. One is slowly being eaten up by the yellow flowers that hook you back to life through every RESET, and the other is going to be the next sacrifice if not your spine, but they’re able to communicate with people when words fail you. That, much to your ire, is all-too-often.

_You got me killed. You ratted me out to your brother. Are you going to finish the job again? Why did you point me out after offering to help me?_

All those questions are valid, but there’s one more that holds more importance.

_Why are you so inconsistent with every RESET? You’re not faintly recalling echoes like Toriel or Papyrus did; you act differently. Completely different. I don’t understand why._

“i’m getting impatient here, sugar." You can tell from the look he's giving you. "it'd be in your best interests to give me an answer to what you were doing, _now._ ” His voice draws out an irritated growl. Low, dark. _Dangerous._

But he’s just as curious as you are. You don’t know if that’s better or worse. You lock your jaw shut, and raise your hands.

_‘G-R-I-L-L-B-Y.’_

“G—R—I—L—L—B—Y...  _grillby?_ ” Sans’ non-existent brow raises. “what ‘bout him? something wrong with him?” You shake your head, tugging on his sleeve and point. His gaze follows your hand, and he stares at the restaurant for a few moments. “oh, you mean the actual _place."_  Sans turns back to look at you. Well, on your hands. There's no other way for him to know what you're going to say, after all. _"_ what ‘bout it, sweetheart?”

You tug on his sleeve again, taking a step forward.

“...you wanna go there again.”

You nod.

“...with me.”

You fold your arms, tapping your foot against the snow impatiently. He hides his laughter behind his hand, before leaning against the door, tapping a boney index against his skull. Something clicks behind his grin, and he closes his eyes.

“huh. alright, _maybe_ i can spare some time ‘outta my busy schedule for ‘ya.” He opens one eye-socket, propping one foot up against the door. On closer inspection, he looks _exhausted._ “but you do something for _me_ first, sweetheart.”

 _ **“You got me killed,** ” _ dies on your tongue.

 _‘_ _What is it you want me to do?’_

His grin widens. “lemme see… heh. tell me some poetry.”

You have to do a double-take. Your expression must say it all, because all he does is laugh at you. 

“heh, i hear crap all the time about how much humans love to analyse the shit out of everything. plus, you’re amusing. ‘could use some good humour. not many laughs in this shithole, y’know?”

He speaks with the aching humour you’ve used as a defense mechanism multiple times. You know anything you say is going to be a fruitless endeavour, so—

_'Alright. Just give me a second to think of something.'_

—so you stop, think, and answer him anyway.

_‘You’re sort of funny.’_

He snorts. “why’s that?”

 _'You want to hear poetry?'_ You hope you can sign all the words right. It’s an old story, one you were made to study back when you gave a damn about your future. Even now, the entirety of that story strikes a chord with you. _‘Well, in my opinion, it holds it’s own hilarity in just how you want me to humour you. For in a way, you are the one who becomes a kind of humorist for others, for you did not see that even humour is empty in a mindless universe devoid of any true standard of consistency or inconsistency.’_

Silence is swept across the dusty plains of the Snowdin tundra, catching in the furred hood of Sans’ coat as he stands there, gawking at you. His hands go slack, hanging at his side like spiders on their last thread, merely dangling on in hopes that they don’t detach themselves from safety.

Cheshire grins curving into an upturned smile. Sans is confused.

“...where’s that from then, sweetheart?” He asks, voice a quiet crawl from his phantom throat.

_‘Does it matter?’_

He shrugs, for a reason more than just to show nonchalance. “i s’pose not. so... you, uh, still wanna go t’grillby’s, then?”

As if on queue, your stomach rumbles. You grin sheepishly. _‘Could use some breakfast.’_

Sans’ grin quirks. “ya don’t say.” Sans shoves his hands in his jacket pockets (you’re _still_ not denying that you’re seething with envy; with the hefty material and fur on the hood, that coat looks so damn _warm_ ), and gestures for you to follow with a bony index finger. “c’mon then, sweetheart. no time like the present, right?”

You ignore the sarcastic tone of those words, adjust the bandanna around your neck, and run to catch up with him.

 

* * *

 

(Something’s still wrong.

 **_Try to figure it out._ ** **)**

 

* * *

 

Same orders again. Tea for you, fries for Sans. Minus the chocolate for Flowey, but he probably wouldn’t set one leaf in this place again with Sans. Not after the last stunt he pulled in the previous timeline. Not after the guilt that still hangs over Flowey’s head like an overcast cloud.

You’re not sure what the weather’s like on the Surface right now. Maybe it’s raining somewhere else.

“Back again with the human, Sans? Never known you to actually stick with something for more than a day.” One patron called out.

“heh, best way i can think of to both underhanded piss pap’s off _and_ get me some personal amusement.” Sans laughed off. “human’s a novelty at best.”

Then the laughter dies down, and you’re both left sitting there in an awkward silence.

Sans’ food is almost half-empty when that silence is finally broken. “answer something for me, would ‘ya?”

You turn your head, nodding.

“what’s with all the… y’know. greenery.” He gestures to the flowers budding on your skin. “is that even... a normal thing for your kind? nothin’ in records says anything ‘bout humans growing flowers on ‘em. load of 'em saying you guys are obsessed with tearing down all the forests, though.”

 _‘Are you a history buff?’_ You can’t resist asking.

He laughs it off. “nah. not in a million years. but we’re all required to learn that shit at an early age, so it sorta sticks with you. education drilled into your head, and all that. but never mind that, though. you’re not answering my question, sweetheart.”

If you lie, he might kill you. If you tell the truth, he’s _going_ to test it and kill you.

How can you lie _or_ tell the truth when you don’t even know where to begin _guessing?_

Simple. You find another way. Something roundabout. That will remind him that you’re naive in this world, but not a verbal pushover. Cruel to be kind, or whatever they say. Defend yourself.

You force the words through your fingers. _‘I’ll tell the answer to you when you tell me why everyone calls you “glass bones”.’_

His fingers twitch, and the lights in his eyes disappear. You’re left staring into two, empty black voids. Something crawls up your back, and it _isn’t_ the flowers. “...is that a _threat,_ human?”

You shake your head. Gulp down the fear. _‘More like an escape for something I don’t want to talk about.’_

“...huh. alright...” His trembling fist calms. Unfolds to an open palm. You don’t think Sans is one to attack by backhanding someone, so you take that as a relatively good sign. His shoulders go lax, as Grillby comes out with another tray. “...well. whatever. food’s here.”

You’re not sure what to make of Sans, honestly. He’s an enigma with an unconventional magnetism to him, something more than just what the surface jokester wants people to believe. You know he’s good at reading people, though he’s confused by your genuine acts of simple kindness (every time you thank Grillby, he won’t stop _staring_ at you). You’re not friends (heck, you’ve rarely _had_ those; you’re not even sure if you know the definition past what Webster has to say about it), but not quite enemies, either. He won’t kill you unless you cross a line, and after that timeline, he won’t kill you, either. He won’t help you, but he _will_ eat with you and hold a conversation past icy stares.

He claims it’s to get back at his brother. You’re not sure you believe that.

When he asks you to get the ketchup for him (“asks”, more like _demands_ ), you consider uncapping the screw just enough so all the ketchup is dumped onto his fries. Though tempting, you fight it, putting it down on the counter next to him. As “thanks”, he offers you a share of his food.

A grand total of _three_ fries. It’s your lucky day!

… You’re not complaining when you pop one in your mouth. The magic fizzles out on your tongue upon immediate contact, but the _flavour…_

If it wasn’t for the fact that people were literally trying to kill you, the food down here would be worth _dying_ for.

Sans notices, and grins. “good, right?”

You hum in agreement.

Sans almost seems . . . _pleased_.

“grillbz has the best food ‘round here. ‘course, you’ll be getting used to that if you chose to stay. it’s the only restaurant around for ages, 'side from that one travelling idiot with the nice-cream.” Sans gestures to the window. “plus, nobody here will kill ‘ya. well, ‘cept paps, but he barely comes ‘round here, 'cept to sleep.”

Your brow raises, as you finish off your last “share”, wiping your hands on your sweater before signing again. _‘Your brother is a part of the Guard.”_

“pap’s the _captain_ of it.” Sans corrects you as he sticks one of his hands in his pockets, the other snatching the ketchup bottle and taking a swig. “and he’s the worst of ‘em. but like i said earlier, heh, he barely comes around here. well, ‘cept to sleep and nag me about my lack of motivation. you should be alright staying here, so long as you can mind the _cold_ stares, heh.”

You shift uncomfortably in your seat. Heat prickles underneath the bandanna around your neck.  _‘...I'm not staying here.’_

Sans pauses in eating his fries, and turns his head to inquire. “no?”

 _‘We’re getting out.’_ You respond.

Sans lowers his voice so the other barflies don’t hear the buzz. He leans in on the countertop so only you can hear his voice. “ _we_? d’ya mean you and your little guard-flower?”

You nod. _‘He’s my friend, not a guard. We help each other. Protect each other. No matter what, I won’t leave him behind. We’re getting out of this place together.’_ You ponder for a moment, before continuing on with the questions. _‘Don’t you want to get out of the Underground too?’_

Sans goes back to his food and closes his eyes whilst he laughs. “heh, ‘course we do. why 'd ya think so many of the guards are after you, sweetheart?”

You furrow your brows in confusion.

Sans brushes you off with another wave of his hand. “it’s nothing important. just finish your tea, sugar.”

 

* * *

 

“Time to go?”

“...Yeah.”

You’d say you’re filled with the adrenaline rush that guarantees your push to continue moving forward (it’s all you can do, after all), but you’d be lying to yourself to say there that there isn’t a certain amount of dread burning deep in your gut, too. The flowers are climbing up in a straight line on your spine, and it won’t be long before there’s no skin left on your back.

 

* * *

 

This time, you try swimming around Papyrus in the icy waters.

Like most of your ideas to get past Papyrus, it doesn’t work.

“SO YOU HAVE ARRIVED, HUMAN!”

Your lips turn blue; your blood runs cold; your body is numbed as another bone cuts through your spine.

Sans watches you from behind the shrubbery.  

Watches.

He’s… looking at... **_me_**...?

_All fades to black._

 

* * *

 

_(You don’t remember the stories of a child who ate a pie much too large for them with their bare hands. That’s not your story to remember._

_But when you wake up by the SAVE star again, the voices from that tale are in your head regardless. They remain_ _at the surface of your mind as you gasp for air after almost drowning in the seas of time.)_

 

* * *

 

No running forward tonight. It’s back to the inn to rest.

More flowers on your head. You try not to lie on them. If you think hard enough, it’s easy to pretend they don’t exist, and the only golden flower that’s unusual is the one with the snappy, cautious personality that you’re growing to adore so much.

“Hey, Frisk?”

“Yeah?”

“You still want to get out of here, don’t you?”

“...”

“Frisk?”

“Yeah. I do. Why do you ask?”

“Just… you know the rumours about this place, right? That anyone who climbs the mountain is said to disappear? Rumours don’t just fade from a place like this. Why… why would you climb a mountain like that in the first place? Were you running away from something? Exploring and fell? Or… did you...” Flowey pauses. “Was it something else?”

“...That doesn’t matter now.” You roll over on the bed, face-to-face with the wall. “I do want to get out. I want all these flowers on me gone. And… I’m tired of coming back to life.”

“You mean dying?”

“...That, too.” You glance over your shoulder to see that Flowey’s posture is wilting. A pang of guilt runs through you, and you reach over to poke his cheek. “Hey, Flowey, don't worry about it so much. We’ll be okay. I’ll be okay. We’re going to be getting out of here soon, right? You promised me we were, and I trust you. Then maybe you can get some actual sunlight to _brighten_ up that face of yours.”

“Frisk, did you seriously use another pun?”

Impishly, you grin. “Go figure.”

“You’re _impossible.”_

“You know if you could, you’d love me.”

“Well. You’re not _completely_ wrong.” Flowey’s cheeks flush green, batting your hand away. “Ugh, stop _grinning_ at me like that. Just go to sleep already.”

Flowey turns away from you to face the glinting glowlight through the cracked glass. In turn, you roll over to face the peeling paper on the wall, curling your body underneath the thick, woolen blanket. You hear Flowey shuffle around a little first before he stops completely. If it wasn't for the wind slightly ruffling his leaves, you would swear he had left you.

But he's still there. He hasn't left you yet. You're both still alive, still fighting, still moving forward.

The thought makes you smile, even just a little. You raise the bandanna to cover your face before your finger traces the teal ribbon on your wrist. It's not long before you shut your eyes, and although there's still one thought whirring around in your head, it's not long before your blackout into a semi-peaceful slumber.

_We’re getting out of here, Flowey. I won’t let you die without seeing how beautiful the sun is at least once. You deserve that much._

 

* * *

 

You’re both too tired for pleasantries (his being his jokes at someone else’s expense; yours being your smiles when you respond in a way that leaves him confused at your kindness) when you head to Grillby’s this time. Flowey is still sleeping in your shared room at the inn. The barflies that notice Sans’ lack of activity buzz with more conversation than usual.

He finally speaks to you, in a heavy, sluggish whisper. “still planning on trying to head out of here, sugar?”

You don’t look at Sans as you nod. _Not giving up yet._

His empty ketchup bottle slides along the bar, and you hear him stifle a tired laugh. “heh. whatever. ‘s your funeral, sweetheart.”

You don’t respond—

“Then I guess this is my wake? Good thing I had some sleep before I came here.”

—in a way that anyone _expects_ you to _,_ anyway. You surprise even yourself at the sound of your voice; confident, with just the right volume to make an impact. Sans is staring at you with widened eye sockets.

“...you can _talk_?”

The anxiety laces your lips shut. The shock kills his words before they can be born.

 

* * *

 

Sans left you after motioning something to Grillby, not speaking another word to you. He didn’t pay again.

Before you leave, you reach into your pocket and draw out the money needed to pay for both of the meals once again. There’s less change in your pockets this time, but you’re not going to leave without paying your dues to the man _somehow._

However, Grillby simply shakes his head and declines what little GOLD you have. You try to push the money into his hand again, but he refuses and draws it back.

He points to a name written in white ink on the side of the bar.

_**SANS**. _

Grillby then raises a finger to (what you assume) is his mouth, and hear him gentle shush you.

You’re not able to stop grinning as you exit the restaurant.  

 

* * *

 

Your smiles never seem to last long in this world.

Papyrus caught you and Flowey making a break for it, later than usual.

Raising one hand, he casts your SOUL into battle. You think he’s going to kill you straight away, but to your surprise, he pulls your SOUL forward and looks at you straight in the eye, stares burrowing itself into the deep recesses of your mind. You know you won't be forgetting  _that_ look anytime soon.

“YOU LOOK . . . AWFULLY FAMILIAR. TELL ME, HUMAN. DO ALL OF YOUR KIND SHARE THE SAME DISGUSTING FEATURES?”

Your mouth gapes open. Feels like you’re swallowing sandpaper. “I... _I_ …”

“SPEECHLESS, I SEE. SANS? WHAT DO YOU THINK?” He laughs. “DON’T BOTHER ANSWERING. YOU’D BE TOO LAZY TO PROVIDE ANYTHING USEFUL, ANYWAY.” He casts his glare back to you. “WELL, HUMAN?”

Flowey doesn’t give you a chance to answer. A vine laces around your waist, and suddenly you’re met with a face full of snow.

“Frisk, now! Keep running!”

Adrenaline pumps through your veins.

Grab Flowey. Keep running.

You grab Flowey.

_Keep moving forward._

_KEEP RUNNING._

**_K E E P  M O V I N G  F O R W A R D—!_**

You stop.

“No!”

Bone breaks bone.

_Oh gods, please stop!_

Fall to the ground. Clutch leg in agony. Bones are _not_ supposed to bend that way. Bones aren’t supposed to bend _period—_

Air.

Oh God.

_There’s no air._

Spots of black blur your limited vision. Papyrus’ boney hand is wrapped around your neck. Squeezing the flowers dotting there. You’re clawing at your throat like a feral cat. Legs hanging, swaying in the wind, like you’ve been lynched.

“P...please…”

“Were you aiming to get back to the Surface, human?”

Papyrus’ foot stomps on Flowey’s face, and suddenly there’s nothing but the squelch of petals. It takes everything in you not to scream.

“Were you and that _thing_ hoping to escape from this place? To warn your kind of how much we have grown?”

His hand tightens. Water builds up in your eyes until there’s no room left in your head. They stream down your cheeks.

_PLEASE._

**“Well, guess what, human?”**

Crack.

**"We’ll do that for you, with your SOUL."**

“...hey, bro.”

_Crack._

“ **You’re going to be the catalyst of the war we will win."**

“...maybe…”

 **_Trickle_** _._

**"Human blood will colour the rivers of your world red."**

“...we should…”

**_SNAP._ **

“...think about this…?”

Papyrus leans in closer. The world begins to fade.

_SO HURRY UP AND LET IT FADE._

**_"So, to commemorate the occasion, how’s about we start with your OWN—!”_ **

 

* * *

 

You don’t say anything to Flowey this time.

You scoop him up in your arms, hold him tight, and fall asleep with him at your side by the glittering SAVE star.

 

* * *

 

( You dream of an old song of two children playing in a field of golden flowers.

But the song is never finished when you wake up. It ends as strangely as it begins; the seed is never planted, and the finished flower never blooms. You just catch the brief interludes of incomplete melodies.

Funnily enough, you hear more of that song each time a flower grows on your body.

Maybe each word comes with a new blossom.

Or maybe this endless stream of time has caught you in time’s delusion.

Either way, _the song doesn’t belong in your head._ )

 

* * *

 

**_". . . That doesn’t mean I can’t try and listen out for it, though."_ **

 

* * *

You catch Sans leaving the locked room at the side of his house again. You offer Grillby’s again. He follows on again. Stuffing his hands in his pockets again. Rinse and repeat the cycle; keep washing it until the water wears it down like the skin on your hands.

You’re both silent as you order the same thing again. Fries for Sans; tea for you. Grillby’s flames brighten when you give more thanks to him. He ducks into the back room to prepare your orders. You close your eyes to ignore Sans’ quizzical expression.

“...can i ask you something?” Comes his voice, slow and cautious.

You nod, though you don’t open your eyes. Instead, you fold your hands in your lap and await the arrival of his question as patiently as you can without emotionally buckling under the tension.

“what’s with the whole ‘sugary-sweet-schtick’ you’ve always got goin’ on? you don’t owe it to nobody ‘ere.” He taps a finger against the counter. “i don’t get it.”

Sans is the only monster you’ve met that seems different every RESET. Like he catches the tailwind of your exhaustion and perpetuates it a tenfold in his own head. Dark circles under his sockets, wilting posture. Everything else remains somewhat predictable: Papyrus’ egoism, Grillby’s surprise at your thanks, the hovering barflies with their drunken silence.

Not Sans.

He just . . . seems more tired. More perplexed.

You would usually answer his question with a straightforward answer, but you want to learn something else, first. You want to try a different approach; you raise your hands to sign again, making sure his focus is on them.

_‘You don’t understand kindness?’_

He tenses. Odd. Sans sees you looking at him, and instantly puts the veil back over the truth. Back to the lax, carefree pose. Sticks his feet up on the counter and everything. Ignores the glare from Grillby from behind the door. “who says i don’t?”

You close your eyes again. _‘You don’t exactly inspire confidence in that theory. You know what the definition of kindness is, but you don’t know what it is in practice. You’re like...'_  It takes you a few moments to think of an apt comparison. _'You're sort of like a scientist. You're trying to make something based off of blueprints in a field that you barely understand.’_

Sans makes a strangled sound.

Slowly, you open your eyes, and his face draws your gaze right away. It’s the look you’ve seen reflected in the mirror tenfold; of something good and delicate that once burned brightly fading away into nothing but a dwindling ember, and of being that person simply getting tired of your hands being burned by your desperation to hold onto it.

“that’s… an interesting metaphor, sweetheart.”

_‘I’m not that creative when it comes to metaphors. Why do you ask about my being kind, though?”_

He pauses. “i guess...i just i don’t understand why yours hasn’t burned out yet.”

You swallow something down your throat, folding your hands to rest them comfortably in your lap.

“...Kindness is all I have.”

He pauses. “...You’re _talking_ to me?”

“I _can_ talk to people. That doesn’t mean I always _like_ to.” You respond, looking down at your hands. “Enough about that. You want an answer to your question, right? Well. There’s something humans have up on the Surface. Called ‘Murphy’s Law’. It’s named after some smart guy that came up with a smart quote that people found so smart, they had to give it an official title named after him. Basically, it says that “if something can go wrong, it will”.”

Sans snorts, chugging down his bottle of ketchup before wiping his mouth ( _mouth_?) with the back of his sleeve. “Heh. Fitting for down here. But what’s that got to do with…?”

“I don’t like that law. In my opinion, some laws are meant to be taken in different ways.”

“Like that one?” His brow-bone raises.

“Like that one. So if _everything_ can go wrong, then it just depends on interpretation. So if everything _can_ go wrong, that means that _rudeness_ can go wrong. That _death_ can go wrong.”

Sans doesn’t look too impressed, save the smile. “Meaning…?”

“I _can_ be rude, but I don’t _have_ to be.” Your hand curls into a shaking fist, before laying flat in an open palm on top of the counter. “I make a choice on how I behave. So I’ll always be kind. Sometimes, a little bit of kindness can be enough for people to realise that not _everything_ has to go wrong in a negative way. That their bad luck can go wrong.”

“Heh. It’s just like that for you, huh? You think everyone can be a good person, if they just try, Sweetheart?”

You know you can’t see into everyone’s heads. If you were to hazard a guess, you would _say_ it depends if they’re willing to take a chance on change. There’s no way you can answer it without thinking about it over and over again, and still getting it wrong. There’s no way you can answer it in a way that doesn’t sound like utter lies. But—

“Yes.”

—you answer it truthfully anyway, smile, and it leaves Sans dead silent.

 

* * *

 

You stick your hand in your pocket to search for the change to pay when you feel a hand on your arm pull you back.

“i got it, this time, sweetheart.”

Sans tosses a few gold coins on the countertop, before leaving without another word.

You hear Grillby chuckle behind you. You turn to see him pushing up his golden-flaked spectacles up closer to his eyes, smiling behind his flaming hands.

“...That’s the first time he’s paid for _anything…_ ”

 

* * *

 

You feel it, stirring in your blood, as you stare again at the SAVE star.

That feeling you haven’t gotten a name for yet. The will to keep going, despite the hellfire you’re facing down here, day-after-day.

It starts with the proof that, even in a place like this, kindness can thrive. In a way, you suppose, it’s like planting a flower. Some seeds won’t work; others will fail to bloom. But cultivate it enough, continue to nurture the soil, and perhaps, even in the dark, the flowers can learn to adapt.

And then?

Like kindness down here, it can blossom into something _unheard_ of, but not impossible to exist.

Maybe you’ll have a name for it soon.

For now, you need to keep moving forward. It’s all you can do, but not all you can accomplish.

You pivot on your heel, find Flowey sat comfortably by the few pieces of shrubbery that survive by the icy river, and pick him up.

“Frisk?” Flowey’s concern in his voice isn’t hidden at all. “Are you sure you want to head out now? Remember, the last time we met Papyrus, you—”

“I know.” You say, quietly. “But I can’t give up now. I need to keep moving forward.”

A thought strikes through your head. You put Flowey down on the ground, going around to sit in front of him. You cross your legs, rest your elbow on your knee and your head on the palm of your hand that _isn’t_ covered in flowers.

“Before we do, though…” You reach over and poke Flowey on the cheek. “I need some answers.”

Flowey’s head drops. “I knew you’d ask eventually.”

“If it’s difficult to talk about, just summarize it for me.” You draw a deep breath, watching as the wisps of cold manifest in front of your face. You don’t want this to take too long; the frost is already creeping up Flowey’s petals. And yours are, too. (Honestly, you never thought you would say that.)

For a moment, the little fangs that protrude out of his mouth seem to reappear, before he hides them with his leaves. A nagging resemblance tickles the back of your head, though you ignore it.

“Flowey. Why do the monsters need my SOUL so badly?”

 

* * *

 

Flowey’s reluctant words haunt your mind. Humans were the ones who locked the monsters down here. Made the barrier with the power of their SOUL’s, back when humans practised magic. Ironically, they also made human SOUL power the _key_ to breaking the barrier, too. King Dreemurr needs seven SOULs. They’ve collected six.

So, in short: you’re the last barrier to _breaking_ the barrier.

Now the rumours that cling to Mt. Ebbott make _sense._ Perpetuate fear of the unknown, all but the most curious minds will leave it alone. Curious or desperate, anyway.

“What do you think we should do this time?” Flowey whispers, narrowing his eyes to look through the encroaching fog.

You’ve left it a little longer between your venture forward this time. More cautious, but willing to take more risks. You _do_ need to be careful, though. One more kill from anything and you’re going to end up blind in your right eye.

You open your mouth to respond when there’s a hum of something in the distance. Two figures, slightly hunched over, and the noise is getting louder by the second. Fear picks the common sense in your gut apart, and you hide further in the shrubbery. Flowey pets the back of your head with one of his leaves. You know he’s not able to do much for you other than being a confidant—flowers never did grow well in snow—and it helps. It really does.

Yet, you still listen. That’s when you realise that this time, something is changing.

_“...and i’m saying that maybe we think about this!”_

_“You? Think about things? Don’t make me laugh, Sans. You’ve not had a decent idea in your LIFE! I catch onto a rumour that a human has arrived here, and you want me to—?”_

“ _Enough! Just—can you just listen to me for once, alright?”_

“That’s never happened before…” Flowey seems just as suspicious as you. You crawl through near the banks of the river further, itching to listen to this temporary exchange more. “Are they fighting? Frisk, maybe we can _—?_  ”

You brush him off, not taking your eyes off the conversation.

Sans looks irritated, maybe even _uncomfortable._ He’s playing with the neck of his sweater, gripping the material. “Look, all I’m _saying_ is that if we just… I don’t know, question them first? See what they know about the Surface before running in blindly? Not everything we do has to start with _killing,_ Papyrus!”

“...You’ve spoken with them.”

Sans freezes.

A gloved hand kneads the front of his skull, and Papyrus growls. “You’ve been _fraternizing_ with the enemy, of all things! All you do day and day out is sleep, eat, and be useless, and the _one_ proactive thing you do in _years_ is to commit high treason to the crown? I know you’re weak, Sans, but I didn’t take your _SKULL_ to be made of glass, too!”

_. . . Is “glass-bones” some sort of nickname for a handicap?_

“...oh, bro, you did _not_ just go there.” Sans’ eyes flicker from red-to-blue and back again, and his grin turns _menacing._

_. . . I gathered it might mean weakness, but . . ._

“Frisk, we _need_ to go now—!” Flowey tugs at your sweater.

_. . . it looks like we were both cursed in this world . . ._

“I’ve been going many places, _brother._ ” The word hangs from a sneer. Papyrus puts a hand on his hip. “Just like you have been with that _human,_ it appears.”

_. . . I guess the question now is: can our curses be broken?_

There’s no way you can get past them without them spotting you, so you just wait for them to see you. Shivers run up your spine and cause the flower petals to tremble. Flowey knows you’ve resigned yourself to fate. Puts a comforting leaf on your back. Dulls the ache of death chipping away at your bones.

When they finally do see you, your entire being quakes in fear at Papyrus’ smile. “...Well, well. Speak of the devil.”

Papyrus clicks his fingers. Summons a red glow. Bones manifest.

You close your eyes. Ready for your hand to grasp Death’s, only to be ripped away back to another repeat.

. . . But it never came.

Instead? This time, somebody comes toward _you._

Sans marches over toward you, expression blank as he grabs your arm and forces you to stand up. You stumble and yelp, but he’s not having any of it as his grip on you tightens. The flowers pressured begin to shoot their screams of pain from your arm, and Flowey is trying to prise his grip from you. It doesn’t work.

Papyrus’ attack falters. Dims in the glow. Demands an answer. “What are you _doing?_ ”

Sans stands up, back straight, and grins. “Heh. Spiting you and showing you I’m _not_ useless. So guess what, bro?” His voice goes lower. **_“I’m taking them straight to ASGORE.”_ **

You freeze.

Anger growls in the phantom bowels of the beast. Red veils cloak the Captain of the Guard. “ **_NO._ ** ”

Sans bites back. **_“Watch me.”_ **

The star hung around his neck begins to gild the scenery, so brightly you have to shut your eyes. The ground is pulled from beneath you, and though Flowey tries to steady the three of you with his weakened vines, there’s nothing left to cling to but the SOUL who’s forcing you to travel through another passage.

 

* * *

 

_( You have flashes of a young child who sleeps in the soil. Brief pictures._

_…_

_You’re not supposed to see that. )_

 

* * *

 

A second later, you blink to find yourself in an unfamiliar location. Dark, damp cavern walls, lit up by blue crystals on the ceiling. There’s a distant sound of water falling from a great height, echoing all around you. You, by crystal-clear reasoning, figure out that must be in Waterfall.

You’re next to a beaten-down sentry station. A single, gargantuan blue flower blossoms by the side of it. Hidden behind it is a spinning, golden SAVE star. Barely functional. A large crack down the middle. Yet, despite it all, is still working.

You go to stand up, but the weakness of your legs coupled with the lack of adrenaline causes you to almost fall back—only to be caught by a steadying arm.

“You alright there, sweetheart?”

The voice makes fear crawl up your back, and you pull away instantly. Flowey drops to the floor as a result.

Sans lets you go and holds up his hands, backing away. “Easy there.”

“Y-you…”

Breathe.

Oh, _shit,_ you’ve forgotten how to breathe.

You’ve not hyperventilated since you were in your mid-teens, hunched over and trying to force the tears back into your eyes before any prying glances saw you in the middle of breaking down. You’ve been doing so _well_ until this point—short gasps that barely qualify as breaths make your vision go spotty.

“Y-you’re… t-taking me to Asgore?”

Flowey has abandoned the boot. He’s in front of you in the healthier, albeit colder, soil in an instant, thorns spiked up like fur from a predator in danger.

 **“Guard-flower”** _indeed._

Sans rubs the back of his skull, kicking a stray stone so it hits the side of the sentry station. Refusing to meet your gaze.

“...Would you believe me if I said I lied to Pap, sweetheart?”

Your SOUL stutters. “Wh-what?”

Sans momentarily looks at the hissing flower below you two, before his interest is drawn elsewhere, and he’s casting his gaze right into your eyes. It’s there again. The slight flicker of blue amongst the red.

“You said… yes. When I asked if you believed anyone could be a good person if they just tried, right? Well…” He scuffs his foot against the broken flagstones, before shrugging. “I’m trying.”

Flowey’s thorns subside, though doesn’t move from in front of you. He’s eyeing Sans with blatant scepticism. “Why should we even _believe_ you?”

“You’ve got no reason to. For all you know, this is a trap, right? Play the part of the monster who reaches a moral event horizon, wants to change their ways—until they sell you out, and you’re left hanging on for dear life. Question is, Sweetheart,” he looks at you with a tired smile. “Do _you_ believe me?”

Sans holds out a hand. You eye it, wary.

“You’re…” Your voice comes out hoarse, and you clear your throat. “You’re going to help me?”

“If you accept. If you take a chance on me changing.”

Your eyes widen.

Flowey utters your name, tugging at your sweater. You’re still staring at Sans when you motion for Flowey to climb up on your other arm, and he secures himself via vines to stay steadfast on your shoulder.

It takes you a few moments. Maybe even minutes. This is the first timeline where time is passing through your fingers and you don’t know what the future holds. Papyrus was always predictable; at first sight, he’d either kill you or try and get an answer from you to sate his curiousity, first. He’s the cause of most of your flowers.

Sans? An enigma. A living paradox.

Humans are supposed to fear the unknown, yet . . .

Maybe it wouldn’t hurt to have the unknown at your side.

You stare at his hand for a few more moments, before you suck in a breath. Slowly, your flower-tipped fingers wrap around his skeletal palm, slowly feeling for anything that might cause another bud to bloom on your skin. A knife, a blade, an electric buzzer. _Anything._

Instead, the only thing you feel is his hand tighten around yours. His finger briefly brushes against the teal ribbon, and that is all it takes for you to become lost in trust.

Sans smiles at you, all warmth and fear, before pivoting on his heel and gently tugging you along to follow. Waterfall isn’t as “welcoming” as Snowdin Town; it’s like you’re walking through the ghost of former hopes. But the gravity of the situation soon hits you.

You aren’t dead. You aren’t dying. Death is postponing knocking at your door.

You got past Papyrus. Someone else is helping you.

It isn’t a flower that blossoms on your skin this time.

It’s a _smile_.

 

* * *

 

( The will to keep moving forward…

You know what that feeling is, now.

You’re filled with

. . . 

 **_D E T E R M I N A T I O N._ ** **)**

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few notes about this chapter:
> 
>  **1) - “broken pride. a guard’s worst nightmare.” -** In the canon of the game, the Guards are widely revered. People constantly look to them for approval, for protection, for guidance. In Undyne's Empress Ending, she widely expands on them, matching the contempt for humanity. So I wanted to try and flip that on it's head a little, having the local Monster populace DESPISE the Guards, but are too despondent to say anything about it, except to mess with them. The guards USED to be revered. Then something happened, breaking the pride of the one Guard who used to venture into Snowdin, and allowing that contempt to grow.  
>  **2) - The SAVE star glitters in the corner of your eye. You try to grasp onto it with one hand, but like time, it can only give the illusion that you’ve got a hold on it. In reality, it passes through your fingers like air." -** Stars are connected to time in this story. Whenever Frisk is near a SAVE star, that's when memories flood in.  
>  **3) - "Well, in my opinion, it holds it’s own hilarity in just how you want me to humour you. For in a way, you are the one who becomes a kind of humorist for others, for you did not see that even humour is empty in a mindless universe devoid of any true standard of consistency or inconsistency."-** This is a quote from H.P Lovecraft's _The Silver Key_ , a short story about time travel, and referenced in "Undertale" itself. Although we don't get much insight into Frisk's backstory as of yet, back when they did care about their life and education, this was a story that left a profound impact on how they view the world. They are saying to Sans they find the ironic humour in how Sans finds THEM funny, when their RESETs make the entire world, including humour, hollow due to how unstable the world really is around them. As for Sans wanting to hear poetry, he just finds humans amusing. He needs to relieve the nihilistic boredom SOMEHOW.  
>  **4) - "And… I’m tired of coming back to life." -** Remember, Frisk isn't a happy SOUL in this story. They don't want to die. They just don't want to exist in this reality anymore. And the only way out of that is to die.  
>  **5) - "We’re getting out of here, Flowey. I won’t let you die without seeing how beautiful the sun is at least once. You deserve that much." -** Frisk's determination doesn't come from them not wanting to die. It's about being that dedicated to seeing those they love be happy.  
>  **6) - "Either way, the song doesn’t belong in your head." -** Someone certainly isn't happy about those memories being seen by Frisk, hm?  
>  **7) - Flowey’s head drops. “I knew you’d ask eventually.” -** Flowey has been trying to put off explaining to Frisk why they are being targeted by Monsters. Complicating matters cause hesitation, and Flowey KNOWS Frisk's mental state could make them into a martyr. That, and maybe he doesn't want to outwardly admit the state his people have become to someone they've grown to care for.  
>  **8) - “You’ve been fraternizing with the enemy, of all things! All you do day and day out is sleep, eat, and be useless, and the one proactive thing you do in years is to commit high treason to the crown? I know you’re weak, Sans, but I didn’t take your SKULL to be made of glass, too!” -** Papyrus, although bordering on verbal abuse here, ISN'T without validity in his arguments. He KNOWS how smart Sans could be, but he's watching his older brother waste his life away. So seeing him be productive in the opposite direction has him lashing out a harsh verbal reprimand. Also, _glass bones_ IS a reference to Sans' low STATS. As far as Papyrus knows, Sans was born with it. Frisk sees it more as a curse, something they're stuck with and hindering their abilities. It resonates with them.  
>  **9) - The star hung around his neck begins to gild the scenery...there’s nothing left to cling to but the SOUL who’s forcing you to travel through another passage. -** Sans teleports through the SAVE stars because of the one stuck around his neck. He can't go through the ones that are broken, however. 
> 
> Also, Frisk finally has a name for the feeling that's kept them going throughout the story. DETERMINATION.


	5. once, ashes were the fires that burned bright

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fires flicker all over the world. Put a flame in a world of darkness, and life will gravitate towards it as a guide for the future.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Experimenting with style again and using it to tell a little story about Grillby.

* * *

 

** CHAPTER FIVE **

** — **

**once, ashes were the fires that burned bright**

 

* * *

Did you know when Monsters die, their bodies turn to dust?

They are not like those who dwell upon the Surface. When they pass on to the next world, their SOULs are unable to contain their physical bodies for another second, so their existence blinks out into nothing but a pile of ash on the floor. The flames of life burnt up into something that can slip through your fingers, like sand. There are exceptions, of course, but they are few-and-far-between.

Each fire; be it tender candle light, or wildfires that engulf the lands until nothing remains, hold their own stories. If you listen hard enough, perhaps the flickering embers of what once can sing their stories to you.

Flames take things away from you, but they can also allow one to keep moving forward, free of any past hurts. Fires flicker all over the world. Put a flame in a world of darkness, and life will flock to it in droves, crafting it as a means to survive longer in a dying world.

 

* * *

 

Once, there was a boy who grew up in the dark.

He was but a babe in a sea of travellers, cradled in the arms of a distant mother as they ventured from the overcrowded halls of their gilded cage, and into the vast unknown.

Clinging to the ripped rags of his mother’s dress, unfocused eyes try to prick spots of light into the pitch-black tunnels. He searches for the glimpses; the hope spots; something other than the crafted glowlights held by those who lead them, the ones that are slowly beginning to die.

Two children crowned in golden flowers, hand-in-hand, hid behind those who held the glowlights. One turned back, locking their gaze with the baby. They wiggle their free, pink fingers as a carefree wave, before turning back to face the darkness.

They clutch the other child’s furred paw tighter.

** — **

_(His weakened mother stumbled a few hours later, falling down and collapsing into clouds of dust right in front of him. The children from before were the first to notice the dwindling_ _embers dying in the body of the child, scurrying over and holding him as best they could until the governing bodies in their lives could hold him better._

_Once, warmth did truly exist within the Underground.)_

 

* * *

 

Once, there was a young child who watched the hopes of his kingdom flourish.

Unfocused eyes could now view the world more clearly through a pair of cracked spectacles. He found them washed up, thrown away by the jail masters who had long-since forgotten those SOULs that they imprisoned in the first place.

Crowds of monsters lined the populating streets, and the young child, with his flickering flames, watches from behind an alleyway. Arms folded, bowtie slightly charred, yet unable to deny the hope burning inside of him at the inaugural address from the Queen’s lips herself.

Two children, smiles slightly worn by time and pressure, are at the forefront of that change. Those cracked lenses allowed him to see that, once, hope had a face, hidden in a bouquet of yellow flowers.

** — **

_(Briefly, he catches the gaze of one of the children. Eyes red like the flames, with a facade of starry-eyed naivety._

_They look right back through him almost immediately, and he ducks down, back into the dusty alleyway to escape their judgement.)_

 

* * *

 

The one with the red eyes is human, the bespectacled teenager soon learns. It’s drilled into the minds of every monster, on every pamphlet and book. And they are the hope for all humans and monsters.

He caught that human child exploring one day, as they raced down streets of broken flagstones and shattered glass. They bade him hello, gave him a smile that looked even more exhausted than the last time he saw it, before racing on ahead without looking back.

Forcing themselves to keep moving forward. The definition of their situation.

** — **

_(In a way, he probably considered himself lucky. He only had to avoid the rain to keep his own fires burning.)_

 

* * *

_**** _

By the time the fires of his youth were at their brightest and strongest, hope had died in the Underground in one day. It didn’t take long for the ruby flames on his body to become tainted blue.

In the prime of his life, he left his potential within the city trailing in the dust of his hope, and in the wake of the Kingdom’s despair, headed for the dust-free tundras of Snowdin.

 

* * *

 

**. . .**

**The stories of what happened to him in-between is lost in the seas of time.**

**So let’s fast-forward a few years, shall we?**

 

* * *

 

If his hand lingers on a surface long enough, an imprint of himself is created from remains of charred ash. The years for him, like wildfires across a cityscape, blur together to create an even bigger mess.

He’s forgotten his own name in the years he’s been a simple restaurant owner. “ _Grillby_ ” is an easier alias for him (and everyone else) to remember. He’s seen many faces come and go over the years. People he could almost dare to call “ _friends_ ”, only to die when they get fed up of trying to tug the tethers of their future along with their despair.

It’s fair. He won’t judge them for it. He has been close to dunking himself into the frozen rivers of Waterfall himself, sometimes.

A few things keep him going, however.

The barflies buzzing around his worktops always provide some form of entertainment, but it is the exhausted skeleton that he can’t quite remember meeting, but he knows hasn’t always been there that draws his curiosity the most. He sits in the same place every day, drinking from the same ketchup bottle until he staggers home.

That skeleton. He’s interesting. Sometimes mumbles scientific jargon. Doting on his brother the same way a mouse would secretly admire a cat. Is one bad mood away from turning into dust on the wooden floors of his establishment. How must life be if one is constantly on the verge of death from emotional collapse alone?

...Well. He’s just a bar owner. He’s not one to muse philosophies.

** — **

_(“Dad? Can you tell me about how you knew the kid with the red eyes again? I want to hear the story. It helps me sleep better.”_

_...Well. Perhaps he’s not just a bar owner, as he hoists the small child of green flames clutching a golden flower onto his lap, weaving a tale of a child that he barely even knows.)_

 

* * *

 

Many of his kin have long-since become little more than dying embers grasping for light, becoming desperate to once again taste the sunlight on their firelit skin. Some have burned out, others drowned in waters of their own accord, or have locked themselves away in the dark recesses of the Underground where even the mighty fear to tread. It is odd where some light ends up, but someone will soon see it as a guide or a warning.

But as he watches his own flames dwindle with age and despair, flickering blue, he has the luxury to say that not _all_ is lost within the Fire Elementals.

She was born in a place of snow and ice, the lands that claimed her ancestors. A tiny, crackling thing, barely big enough to rest on his hand.

He found her barely burning outside the back of his restaurant, thrown away in the trash like nothing. Each Fire Elemental has an emblem unique to them; in the colours they burn. Rarely do they change. She's a little green flame; a gasping ember if he ever did see one. She shines, though weakly, with the colours of grass and contaminated water. Grillby considers himself to be made of many useless things, but he has not forgotten what a Monster's SOUL  _used_ to look like in the light. Even if he was just a child like the one he held in his arms, until she was big enough to become embarrassed by being held by her father. 

He cannot help but worry for her. Her flames flicker, they are dim at times and barely non-existent, but there she is.

Despite everything, damning all the odds, she is _burning_.

His little Limelight.

Hope began with him refusing to follow the lure of nihilistic despair, picking her up and letting her flames continue to brighten.

 

* * *

 

Something’s changing in the ashes of that despair, the cloud of it that hung over that skeleton.

One day, he comes in with a different kind of company than usual. Not odd, for him. The skeleton likes to find his amusements where he can.

But they are a young human, crowned in golden flowers. Eyes as blue as the flames cloaking his body. A gentle, young smile that reminds him of the one person who will listen to his stories without finding them odd.

**And above all else?**

**_‘Thank you.’_ **

**… They are _kind._**

 

* * *

 

They come in again.  
 _(the ribbon is visible when they raise their hand)_

 

They come in again  
 _(the bandanna shows when they cover their mouth)_

 

and they come in again  
 _(teal and orange merge when they cry)_

and again  
 _(patience and bravery do not have to juxtapose)_

and again  
 _(other traits are yet to be discovered)_

and again  
 _(they are **d e t e r m i n e d** )_

 _and_ ** — **

**( "Always be kind." )**

 

_**You get the idea.** _

 

* * *

 

Every single time he serves them, they say _thank you._ Every time, he feels the red flames of his youth burn a little brighter inside of him. Something about this human… something feels more than familiar. Like he's seen the same face for the first time over and over. For the first time in years, he feels somethinghopeful. More than the fact that his daughter exists —it's that something this human has, the way they carry themselves... means something is  _different_ this time. They're patient, they're willing to listen, and they're not just going to keep going forward for the sake of moving forward. Their movements carry  _purpose._

Yet the flowers on them, ones he knows are rooted to their skin… well, he won’t question that. Humans are odd. It worries him, though.

_Worries._

He looks at his hands, at the wine glass that is so clean it sparkles more than any star ever could, before laughing to himself in the dead of night.

** — **

( Time is meaningless in the Underground. “Dead-of-night” is a phrase Monsters adopted from those who locked them in this gilded cage.

And yet **—**

** And _yet_. **

Something primal stirs in this monster, whose flames are no longer turning into ash from age.

Times are _shifting._ )

 

* * *

 

He’s sweeping outside when he sees the Captain of the Guard cloaked in a veil of red, anger masking the calm he usually portrays.

He rants about his brother, about his disdain for humanity, about the human with the crown of golden flowers.

His flames, once blue, begin to flicker red once more.

He drops the broom. Goes inside. Begins to plan.

 

* * *

 

“.......Shyren? I need you to do me a favour. If you see my daughter in Waterfall… tell her that if she sees the skeleton who drinks ketchup, he knows what he’s doing. There’s no need to panic."

Static in the voice. Something wavering. Slow words.

Grillby smiles.

"….I know you can do it, Shyren. ....You know what? On second thought, tell as many people as you can."

He gently puts the phone down, picks up another glass. Doesn't clean it. Doesn't need to be cleaned. 

Instead, he lets the air drift down to the bottom, all oxygen and carbon dioxide and other gases and chemicals that skeleton blubbered to him whilst barely avoiding scraping himself on an emotional curb. Once it's filled with that delicious nothingness, Grillby raises his glass to the glass stars hanging above him, and without another word, he takes a sip.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **1) - "Fires flicker all over the world. Put a flame in a world of darkness, and life will gravitate towards it as a guide for the future." -** Living beings are always drawn to the light, no matter if it dangerous or safe. But sometimes, that fire inside of us can be many things. Adrenaline. Instinct. DETERMINATION.  
>  **2) - "Two children crowned in golden flowers, hand-in-hand, hid behind those who held the glowlights." -** I wonder who these two children are? Surely, they cannot be familiar... can they?  
>  **3) - "Eyes red like the flames, with a facade of starry-eyed naivety." -** Whoever this human is that Grillby remembers, they are world-weary at such a young age.  
>  **4) - "In a way, he probably considered himself lucky. He only had to avoid the rain to keep his own fires burning." -** The human had to live up to a lot in their lifetime. Being the future of humans, monsters, and being weary of the world at a tender age must not have been the best thing for them.  
>  **5) - "He’s just a bar owner. He’s not one to muse philosophies." -** Grillby hears words and woes from many Monsters, of all ilks. He doesn't have to talk, doesn't have to listen, but he does. But whatever his opinions fostered, he will never say his opinions. Except to two Monsters: Sans, and his daughter.  
>  **6) - "His little Limelight." -** I love coming up with the origins of the different kinds of Monsters you can see in the game. Aside from the Dreemurr family and the Skelebros, the one type of Monster that seems to be frequent is that of Fire Elementals. But many of them, cut off from the Sun and banished to a world of darkness, have either turned to dust from lack of hope or ended their own existence of their own volition. Each family has a unique colour which rarely changes unless a huge emotional shift occurs within them. Hence why Grillby's flames went from red to blue. "Limelight", or Fuku, is a sickly girl when Grillby finds her, hence being the "contaminated" water. She's from a weak race of Fire Elemental But, despite everything he could have done, Grillby sees her as HOPE for his race.  
>  **7) - "Something primal stirs in this monster, whose flames are no longer turning into ash from age. Times are shifting." -** See what a little kindness can do for someone? ^_^  
>  **8) - "Instead, he lets the air drift down to the bottom, all oxygen and carbon dioxide and other gases and chemicals that skeleton blubbered to him whilst barely avoiding scraping himself on an emotional curb. Once it's filled with that delicious nothingness, Grillby raises his glass to the glass stars hanging above him, and takes a sip." -** My favourite paragraph from this entire chapter. Grillby cannot go near liquids (except for Lava, I guess), so I love the idea he just drinks the air to relieve himself. He's finally giving himself something, though mundane, to feel better about himself.


	6. WATERFALL I  (let us meander around our falsehoods)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Time cannot erase guilt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, a little note before the new chapter. Recently, the original author of “Overgrowth” has deleted their Flowerfell collection from their AO3 account due to people constantly reposting the story on sites they had explicitly asked people not to do. Their story is still available via audio version, but still. Now, does this mean I will end this story? No. I will stand by that this is still my own personal iteration of the story, and this is where it really starts to deviate from the original source material, but I hope this serves as a lesson to people to respect the original creator’s wishes. Stealing content isn’t funny. It’s disrespectful, harmful, and just plain rude.
> 
> That being said, I'm starting to get a little disheartened regarding this story. I'm putting in quite a bit of effort and... I don't know, is it selfish when I become sad that it doesn't get commented on? Have I not been exciting enough in my writing? Well... I'd appreciate it if you guys commented. I always appreciate critique! ^_^

* * *

  

 _(“...There are all those stories told down here, about falling angels and dying stars, but I never hear any songs from the Underground. Don’t your people sing? Have they forgotten how to?_ _”_

 _“...I do know_ **_one_ ** _song, but people call it an omen.”_

_“I won’t tell anyone. Please, won't you sing it for me? I love music.”_

...Didn't anyone ever teach you that it’s rude to listen in on other people’s conversations?

**_Stop listening in on things that don’t belong in your head. )_ **

 

* * *

 

  **CHAPTER SIX**

**_ — _ **

**WATERFALL** **I** **  
****_(_** ** _let us meander around our falsehoods_** ** _)_**

 

* * *

 

You are silently musing as Sans leads you by the hand down the many crevices, pulling you away from the cracked SAVE star that still barely spins. A part of you takes notice of how _specific_ his navigation is; down the winding, craggy pathways, with droplets of water streaking the walls of the narrow passageways.

The SAVE star with the crack running through its surface is nothing but a golden speck in your memory at this point, forcing yourself to take in the other aspects of the next chapter in your story. Your mind is a confessional when you finally admit to yourself that, despite the unknown shadows lingering around your future and what deaths potentially wait to end your life there, that Waterfall is one of the most beautiful places you have ever set your eyes on.

(Well. _Eye._ Your right eye is barely visible beyond a speck of viridian now; caught within a certain perspective of glowlight stuck to the ceilings of this gilded cage, where the imprisoned attack the children of jailers long buried back into the earth, with both the flesh and bones imprisoned in a soil cage and left to rot and wither away.

 _“Your people trapped us down here.”_ The guilt calls, taking its place on your shoulder. _“What right do you have to want to get out of here with your life intact, or to call this jail cell beautiful?”_ )

You struggle not to stumble from the faint echoes of the unfamiliar voices in your head, only to fail _miserably._ It’s not long before you start to lose your footing.

“you alright there, sweetheart?” Sans asks, catching you by the arm. He barely misses grabbing the teal ribbon.

 _Tired of listening,_ you almost mumble back. Instead, you say, “struggling to see.”

“poor eyesight, huh?” His gaze flits from you to Flowey, grin twitching. “maybe you can borrow some from the little hawkeye-buttercup over there. hasn’t lifted his eyes from me since we started walkin’.”

You look up at Flowey. Black beady eyes set a glare so sharp on their target, you’d swear it could carve profanities into Sans’ bones within a second. He’s perched on your shoulder, not having taken one of his vines off of your other arm. The smile that blossomed on your face after Sans joined you and Flowey has gradually faded, wearing away into a straight line as the silence perpetuates your unease.

From the one eye that hasn’t been eaten by the yellow flowers on your face, it isn’t hard to grasp what has happened in this situation;  and thanks to it being relatively quiet, it hasn’t been hard to hear Flowey literally _hissing_ at him.

Sans hasn’t said much in response to Flowey’s glaring. Hasn’t _done_ much either, which doesn’t really surprise you—from what you’ve gathered, Sans is too lazy to put in the effort of fighting back. But, honestly, it’s for you hard not to miss the way the phalanges that _are_ wrapped around your hand are shaking ever-so-slightly; and it’s _impossible_ not to notice the slight flickering colours in his eyes. They go from red to blue and back again in seconds, but like the colours in his eyes, Sans is shrugging you off every time you tug on his hand and brushing away the questions.

Pretending that they don’t exist.

Flowey growls at him. Fangs protrude out from his mouth and hang with a protective sneer. “What? Is it so hard to believe that I don't trust you right off the bat? You might have won Frisk over, but not me.""

"keep up with that winning attitude and you _might_ just be in with a shot of hittin' a home run."

"Hopefully  _Frisk_ will. And don't insult me. Actually, I've got a question for you."

"i'm no ears."

"Hah. How hilarious. You're a real genuine  _Comic,_ Sans." You try to stop the laughter from your throat as you realise the pun; Sans just shrugs for an answer. Flowey continues. "If you're so dead-set on helping Frisk get out of here, though, to "become a better person" as you so claim, then why not just use that shortcut trick of yours that you used to escape your brother and get them right to the Barrier?"

You'd be lying if you said your curiousity of that very question hadn't eaten you up inside, too.

Once upon a time, your head had so many questions that they dripped from your teeth and out into the open air. That was before you learned to be quiet.

Sans toys with the SAVE star on the chain around his neck. "This thing is what enables me to travel like that. Teleport, I s'pose you could call it, but I can only go through those certain points. If they're broken, I can't. All the ones that are up ahead have been  _shattered._ 'course..." Sans' voice goes quieter. "You wouldn't know anything 'bout that, huh?" 

Flowey stills.

"...because you've been way too focused on me for the past hour or so."

The tension in his stem fades, causing him to scoff."Someone has to keep an eye on you, even if you are made of nothing but _glass bones_.”

Sans’ hand trembles again. “all this attention for ‘lil old me, huh? heh, well, as flattered as i am, i’ve gotta break this to ‘ya, buttercup: i don’t date plantlife.” Sans pokes a bony index on Flowey’s petals, his Cheshire-grin twitching under the strain of his amusement. “sorry i had to be the one to break your little heart.”

“What the—?!” Flowey’s cheeks flush a brilliant lush green. “Why would I ever want to date _you,_ smiley _trashbag_? I’d rather go and date your brother!”

“good luck with that.” Sans snorts, covering his grin with his free hand. A part of you wonders if he’s relieved at being called something other than _Glass Bones_ by Flowey. Either way, it buys Sans more amusement from how riled up Flowey is. “pap gets that kind of stuff as much as you would understand something like… heh, something as advanced as quantum physics.”

“Do you have a smartass retort for _everything?”_

“In comparison to present company? Everything I say is smart.”

“You’re such a _bastard_!”

“I take offense to that, buttercup. I’m pretty sure my parents were married before they did the deed.”

_“Ugh!”_

For a brief, _brief_ moment, a thought flits across your mind, and you wonder if you can make the flowers grow out of your skin at will. You wouldn’t mind having your hearing eaten up in seconds if it meant you got a reprieve from their _stupidly_ childish banter.

You should cover your ears to spare yourself, give your mind a moment of reprieve from the inane idiocy—

“...what’s so funny, sweetheart?”

—but instead, you go against all logical expectations and reasoning, and simply burst out into laughter.

The sounds of your laughter are gentle, winding around the three of you like a draft. It’s by no means unhinged hysterics, but it bounces around the surface of caverns all the same. You wipe a tear from your free eye, though you also brush the finger against the flowers that sap up your strength to remind yourself that they’re still there.

“Frisk? Are you alright?”

“Yeah, I’m fine. It’s n-nothing. Not really. It’s just, I was thinking that...” You mumble, before raising your hands to complete the sentence for you. _‘You two are just really funny to listen in on. That’s all.’_

 

* * *

( Deep down, you know you’re nothing but a damned dirty liar.

. . .

Well, you’re not the first human to lie constantly to people to save face. At least you have the excuse of being stuck in a loop where you’re dying to try and atone for your mistakes. Of course, the world isn’t going to let you die just yet. Maybe this is your punishment.

_Or._

A chance to repent.

**_Take solace in that, if you must. )_ **

 

* * *

 

At first, you think Waterfall is abandoned.

Although you constantly feel like you're being watched, there are no sounds except the footfalls of both you and Sans (you’re still amazed at how he’s not _tripping_ over the undone shoelaces; when you inquired, he just shrugged and said he was “too lazy” to tie them up; that prompted Flowey to say something along the vines of “doesn’t surprise me”, and that lead to more smart alec talk from Sans and Flowey’s frustration in not being able to come up with a decent comeback in time), and the shadows that paint the floor are from the looming rock formations, not belonging to any living creature.

Well. You _think_ they are living beings, anyhow. The way these creatures, these Monsters seem to live is like this place is some sort of underground purgatory. Sans, despite his lively insulting verbal attacks against Flowey, is no exception to this. He moves like the dead.

“You move like the _dead_. Will you hurry it up? We need to get Frisk somewhere safer than this and you're not exactly _helping_ in that regard.”

_Oh, no._

You’re passing a small cluster of Echo Flowers—bioluminescent flora that glows a dim cyan and repeats back everything one whispers to their petals, Sans told you on a whim—with knotted stems and trying their best to crawl up the walls, when it dawns on you that, yes, they _are_ going to start arguing.

“...heh. says the one without _legs?_ or arms? or... well, i’m assuming you’ve got a brain somewhere in that petalhead of yours, huh.”

“What the—did you just say I was _stupid?!”_

“Basic comprehension skills, check. Huh, so part of my thesis _was_ incorrect. Although, further study may be required to check if—”

 **“** _**Will you s**_ ** _top treating me like I’m some sort of failed science project!”_ **

And here comes the bickering again.

As amusing and refreshing as you found their little feud at the start of the venture, the bickering between Sans and Flowey hasn’t died down. Well, it’s more like Flowey gets distrustful of Sans so barrages him with insults, and Sans bites back with some smart alec comment with another grin on his face (he’s probably enjoying this a lot more than _you_ are, at any rate), and the drone of it hasn’t died down. It’s gotten to the point where the bickering has become monotonous in your routine.

As much as you want to, though, you don’t complain. In your mind, you’ve forced Flowey to accept a Monster now traveling you that he saw previously _killed_ you in another timeline; Sans is taking a chance on being a good person and is adjusting. It’s a big change for the both of them.

So, for now, your lips remain sealed shut.

Funnily enough, since the flowers have begun to eat up your vision (one eye now rarely sees anything but monochrome flowers, plus the occasional glint of red), you’ve found your sense of hearing to be getting stronger.

The poetic meandering: if you concentrate for long enough, you could probably hear individual stars up in the atmosphere begin to burn.

The logical assumption (courtesy of a cheap imitation of Sans inside your head): when one sense gets weaker, the others try to compensate. Basic survival alteration at its core.

Either way, exploration of this new development is halted _again_ by their bickering.

“ _Oh, and I suppose it’s MY fault we’re lost now, is it?”_

“we’re not _lost,_ buttercup. we’re monsters, and the ‘lil sweetheart there is a human.”

“Oh, for the _love_ of—!”

You clap your hands three times and stomp on the ground, hums of protest coming from the delicate seal of your lips. _“Mm! Mm!”_ Your quiet voice is consensually muffled, gagged by your inability to hush others. Still, Sans and Flowey stop their arguments for one second, turn around and look at you.

You breathe a sigh of relief.

 _'Please stop arguing.'_ Your hands quiver, the hairs on the back of your neck standing at attention. _'I understand you two might not get along with each other right now, but we're all on the same team. Can we just try and be a little bit—'_

You don’t get to finish.

Something suddenly pierces through the crown of your head, leaving you gagging on your own blood.

_“FRISK!”_

You choke on your dying breaths, your hand trembling with the words left unsaid as you try to brush the petals on Flowey’s face. Reassure him that this death isn’t his fault.

But instead, your fingertips come into contact with cold glass bones. Lingers there for one moment, before it falls to your side in a timeline that burns up in front of you, like a dying star.

 

* * *

 

Seven times, you meet your end this way.

The next time something pierces you, it’s through your forehead. Then your throat (tearing a hole through the bandanna--a clean cut), then the heart, then the stomach, then the hub of reproductional energy, and finally, the base of your spine.  All the way your body down in a straight line, cutting you into two neat halves.

Seven punctures. Seven wounds rewound by time. Seven new flowers in full blossom and these blooms are bigger than the others. At least these flowers haven’t eaten your vision yet. They’ve spared you that fate so far, and like a delirious fool, you’re counting your forlorn blessings.

Whoever is killing you, then they’re stealthier than most Monsters you’ve encountered. In a sense, you’re _missing_ the brute-force Papyrus used against you before; at least you saw it coming, had time to prepare for it. This leaves Flowey is more vigilant. He even stops arguing with Sans after the second death, for the most part. It doesn’t work at all, but like always, you’re grateful.

. . .

You didn’t notice before, but after the third death, Sans never stands in the same place twice in each new timeline. You notice it by focusing your hearing, to listen to his feet.

They never stay still.

* * *

 

( … If your hearing really is getting clearer the more your vision is eaten away by the flowers, how about we remember a song? An elegy for the broken and damned, complete with musical composition.

**An old symphony, from way into the future. )**

**-**

_“Isn’t it cool, isn’t it neat?_  
_Red Death is paying a visit._  
_Hands of ice, bones of glass,_  
Not so common, is it?”

 

* * *

 

Flowey is still quiet on the eighth cycle of this scenario.

Sans had called flowey _“hawk-eyed”_ before, and it really does begin to show here. Even though the shadows around you make any high ledge a vantage point for sniping you, it hasn’t stopped him from looking around constantly, the trustee little lookout that he’s trying to be.

Sans… is just Sans. Ever the enigma. If you’re honest, you’re still not sure what to make of his actions despite travelling together for almost half a day now. He’s now standing to the right of you, left arm free and the other stuffed into the pocket of his jacket.

You pause, looking to the side. Your personal introspection is substituted for cruel reality the moment you see the small cluster of knotted stems and glowing petals.

Now should be the time Sans taunts Flowey—

“so. sweetheart.”

—but he’s always been an enigma. Never consistent. Expectations are thrown out of the window as soon as Sans turns his head a little to look at you, gazes interlocking with one another.

_‘Yes, S-A-N-S?’_

Sans toys with the SAVE star slung around his neck, letting it dancing along his bony fingers. “when you humans die, they leak out that red stuff, right?” A chill runs down your spine, Flowey hisses. Sans just laughs quietly at your blatant fear. “relax there, sweetheart. i’m not gonna lay a hand on ‘ya.”

He stops playing with the SAVE star, letting it drop to the ground without an ounce of care. You expect it to fall and shatter, only for the SAVE star to be restrained by the chain piercing through the top of it, land back into place with a bounce.

“but seriously, i’d appreciate an answer to the question already. you know that i’m not exactly the _most_ patient type, sweetheart.”

_No, though you are lazy as well. An impatient procrastinator._

Sans is such an enigma it makes your brain bleed. Metaphorically.

You know what _that_ feels like—

(—and _now I don’t_ **_because I want to forget, stop making me remember_ ** _—_ )

“Why don’t you just take a good look at the Monster’s bloody history from the war, then? Or beyond that?” The defensive tone returns, interrupts your gaping jaw and thoughts running wild. Something else is in the sound of his voice, too. An old, sorrowful ache that you can’t quite pinpoint the cause. It’s older than _you_ , you figure. “It’ll give you all the answers you need on what it’s like when humans _die_.” Flowey snaps, fangs protruding out.

“...wasn’t talkin’ to _you_ , buttercup.”

Flowey’s petals ruffle up. Yours just moderately quiver. “Well, _trash,_ maybe it’s _you_ who need your eyes fixed, because Frisk doesn’t exactly _like_ to talk! Although I would’ve thought someone who can’t keep his nose out of everyone’s business would have _known_ that! So why don’t you just—”

“F-Flowey. It’s o-okay.” Flowey shuts up at your small voice, hoarse and scratchy that it is. You tap your thumbs together as you answer Sans’ question. “W-We do have-have r-red-d stuff inside o-of us. It’s c-called, uh, “bl-blood”. But, d-don’t you already kn-know that f-from, uh…”

Sans frowns at you.

“...from the education _“drilled into your heads”_ at school? I-Isn’t that wh-wh-what you told m-m-me?”

He relaxes. Shoulders lose their tension a little. Sans lifts gaze off of you, though; wanders just a little to the left of where you’re standing. You’re tempted to turn around, and you almost do—

—but Sans tightens his grip on your shoulders, his cold bones digging into your skin ever-so-slightly.

You don’t budge an inch.

“yeah. i did tell ‘ya that. good to see memories of you humans works so well.” His words hang off of a sneer; one of his feet shifts somewhat, so his body is more balanced in standing. Bony fingers dig into your shoulders like little nails, migrated only by your sweater and . . . his fingertips being softer than you’d expect.

“But you know what I’d _really_ love to see right now, sweetheart?”

"...B-Blood?"

Flowey’s fangs protrude out—you can see the vines disturbing the wet soil from the corner of your eye, dotted with thorns that you know aren’t intended for you—

 _We shouldn’t have trusted him,_ you know are the thoughts going around in Flowey’s head right now when his black, beady eyes change into red pinpricks of anger and distrust—and, really, you’re the only one to blame if this all goes to hell because you should have _listened_ to Flowey and—

“heh. i’d love to see that, but...”

You squeeze your eyes shut.

**_“I ‘ d  l o v e  t o  s e e  y o u  e v e n  m o r e ,  p a l  . “_ **

You open your eyes to catch the dissipation of blue light.

With one arm raised and the other still toying with the SAVE star, Sans is holding a Monster up off of their feet, dangling in midair by their SOUL which tainted blue.

“well, well. what do we have here, huh, sweetheart? looks like i’ve landed myself a little stalker. jeez, i didn’t think my bro’s fame extended to _me,_ but i suppose there’s always a first time for everything.”

The Monster screams when Sans closes his eyes and flicks his wrist, causing the monster to be thrown upwards before a violent descent to the ground below. However, before they’re left as a dusty pile on the floor of Waterfall, Sans is busy catching them mid-air by use of his magic again. He grins at them, golden tooth glinting from the light. “But then again, I’ve never been much for the centre stage. It’d take something _real_ special to get me to perform for anyone but my brother, y’know?”

 _“Fuck you.”_ The Monster spits, glaring at you in particular. As you’re looking closer at them… you realise that they don’t look that much younger than you. They’re some sort of bipedal... Lizard monster? No arms that you can see, though they might just be tucked underneath their orange striped sweater-dress.

“language, kid. what would your mother think?” Sans clicks his tongue from behind that grin of his (at least, you assume it’s his tongue. You’re still not quite sure how he works). “oh, wait. w _ait,_ that’s right…”

“Don’t you _dare_ , you bastard—!”

“hush now, kiddo. don’t you know it’s rude to insult someone who’s listening? jeez, and now you’re crying, too? whaddya do? did ya get _dust_ in your eye?”

The Monster—Kid, you’re calling them for now—begins to thrash his legs around in a vain attempt to kick Sans, screaming. “Fuck you! You don’t know anything about her!" Kid takes a moment to quieten down; to compose themself. Their next words come out wobbly; half-formed. "I-Insult me all you like. At least I’m not the one shacking up with some fleshy _jailor_!”

“Sans…” You mutter to him, although he ignores you.

“ _Jailor_ … huh.” Sans uses his hand to beckon Kid closer, brow raised. “Y’know, that kind of language sounds sort of familiar. Don’t ‘ya think?”

“...I’m not telling you anything, traitor.”

“You don’t need to bother with the resistance, Kid. Your expression tells it all to me. Or should I call ‘ya “Scout”? Considering that’s what you were doing a moment ago. Unless you were tryin’ to play hero, slay the human yourself.”

And succeeding in several timelines, apparently. Maybe Kid got an accolade.

Kid growls, before staring directly at you. “So what?”

Sans hasn’t finished the interrogation, dropping Kid to the ground before caging him with azure bones that sprout suddenly from the ground. Kid yelps, but doesn’t bother to move. They just sit there, their displeased frown making deep lines on their forehead. You know they're directing all that pent-up anger at you.

Honestly, from what you know of the Monster's history, you don’t exactly blame them.

“...so you’re scouting for the rejects now, huh. That desperate to get into the Guard?”

 _“Fuck you._ ” They spit again, saliva hanging from their protruding fangs. “She’s a better Monster than you’ll _ever_ hope to be. Call her a reject all you want, but at least she’s not the one traipsing around with _that_ flesh-sack or the one who's related to an _usurper._ ”

Sans stills. “...Y’know, there’s a lot of things my brother is, but you’ve got no right to insult him when you’re even lower than dirt, Kid.”

There’s a history here; persona and engraved into scars you can’t see. You have no idea who “she” is, why Sans feels the need to defend a brother that he claims to barely tolerate (but Sans is an enigma in every sense of the word, so you never take anything at face-value from him. Not even when he says he’s trying to be a better person, as _much_ as you want to believe it’s the pure, unadulterated truth), so you don’t comment on it.

You do, however, remember your personal mantra.

_"Always be kind._

_Sometimes, kindness is all we can give._

_Sometimes, kindness is enough."_

“Sans.” You put your hand on his shoulder. “Let them go home.”

“... _What?”_

Both Sans and Kid look at you as if you’ve lost your mind. Maybe you have, but you don’t care about that.

“sweetheart, you _wanna_ die? you know this punk’s just gonna go report you to the guard, right?”

“I know.”

Sans deadpans, confused. “then why the hell do you want me to—?”

“You’re already trapped down here. Don’t limit their freedom even more.”

Kid’s frown fades, their mouth gaping a little.

“that’s a nice little bit of poetry, sweetheart, but this rat ain’t worth any shred of your pathetic sympathy.” Sans grins, snapping his fingers and making the bones start to close in around Kid. Slowly, closing in…

_No._

You grab onto Sans hand, squeezing the bony appendage so hard you fear you might cause it to break into a thousand shards. Your other hand grips onto his jacket before you must all the strength that the flowers keep sapping your strength and _throw_ him to the side, making him stumble.

In the haze, you run over to the makeshift cage of bones, and kick one of the bones so hard it _cracks in half._

“Sans, I said…” You look over at Sans, struggling to catch your breaths as beads of sweat pours down your face. You steady yourself, holding onto the rock wall and straightening your spine. Branches or bones, whatever is holding up your body at the moment, they aren’t about to let you slouch. Determination heats up your blood.

 **_“L e t  t h e m  g o ._ ** **”**

**. . .**

_Sans lowers his hand._

 

* * *

 

( … Do you want to hear more of that song?

**If you insist.**

**_ — _ **

_“He reaps our SOULS, quick and quiet,_  
_Never leaving a trace._  
_Trembling hands, blinded eyes,_  
_But he never shows his face.”_

 

* * *

 

Sans hasn’t looked at you since Kid ran off. Flowey hasn’t been able to stop smiling, though, so you consider that a plus. He just walks on ahead of you, hands stuffed into his pockets and not saying a word to you. Sans doesn’t even bite back as Flowey insults him again.

You reach out to touch his shoulder, only to draw back when he turns his head.

“...I didn’t mean to upset you.” The words roll off your tongue before you can use your hands instead. _‘I know you were just trying to help me.’_

You swear that, just for a moment, the lights in his eye sockets flicker from red to blue and then back again.

Sans adjusts his scarf around his neck to cover up his grin. “...help ‘ya. sure.“ He looks up at the mouth of the cavern, at the Echo Flowers that manage to grow upside-down alongside the glowing crystals. “...you really are all goodness and starshine, aren’t you.”

“U-Uh…” You feel the flowers unfurl as a warmth spreads across your cheeks. _‘The phrase is “goodness and s-sunshine”.’_ You don’t need to, but you add in the quotation marks for good measure.

From the low chuckle from Sans, he appreciates it. “is it, now? ‘fraid human idioms aren’t my strong suit, sweetheart.”

You're left blinking fast as Sans chuckles, reaching for your wrist. Chilled bones curl around it, as if you’re so delicate you’ll break from one shot of a glass cannon.

“Come on,” he mumbles to you, pulling you along. “We’re wasting glowlight."

You follow in his footsteps without another word.

 

* * *

 

“Frisk, wait. Hold up a second.”

The flowers have started to eat up your left leg when Flowey secures you in this iteration of the timeline, making you stop in your tracks. It takes _everything_ in you not to stumble (you haven’t told Flowey that you’ve been doing that more lately; you’re surprised Sans hasn’t become curious over the flowers blooming. Maybe he’s trying to be polite. ...Or maybe he’s just too lazy to comment.)

Sans halts a few moments later, casting an amused grin your way. Or impatient. You can’t really tell with his face. “Looks like the flower’s paranoid again.”

You ignore him. “Wh-What’s wrong?” You mumble. Flowey points ahead with his vine.

“...Be careful where you tread.”

The flowers around your eyes are making it so much harder for you to see by the second. But there’s no way you miss the sight of the dust carpeting the rock floor, sprinkled across the dripping craggy rocks. In the distance, you can barely make out the outlines of a cracked pencil, the tip of it speckled with red ink, lying next to a chipped dagger. Both are half-submerged in water.

They look old. Where is the paper?

Flowey suggests you take a side-step, so, of course, you—

“sweetheart? what’re you doing?”

—you _ignore_ the perfectly logical advice given to you, and instead, you’re kneeling down in front of the dust and the pencil and the dagger, putting your hand to rest on the broken things that shouldn’t mean anything to you.

The jeremiads of forgotten souls are written in the silent requiems in the way you move your hands. You clean the pencil free of the red ink, dry it off with the sleeve of your sweater, before putting it back down near the water’s edge.

The very sight of the dagger makes your skin crawl, but you free it from the dirt lodged in the cracks anyway. It pulsates with something—some kind of magic, maybe—as you lay it next to the pencil.

You feel Sans’ shadow cast over you despite the lack of glowlight; it doesn’t stop you from scooping the dust into a small, neat pile, surrounding its edges with the dying cyan petals of the Echo Flowers that once bloomed here. You place the dagger and pencil on top, before standing up.

Flowey isn’t looking at you. His head is bowed.

Sans won’t stop _staring._

“...Come on already.” He growls after a moment of nothing but staring at you with widened sockets, though you know it’s nothing to be afraid of by this point. Sans is gruff, not _evil._

He grabs your wrist, leads you along gently this time. “We’re wasting glowlight again.”

The three of you keep moving forward.

It’s all you can do.

 

* * *

 

_( But, you see, the “steps” you take don’t just have to be filled with just walking._

_Even if it is a mistake to get involved with a world like this..._

_You learned long ago that, sometimes, a little kindness to the lost and forgotten goes a long way. )_

**_ — _ **

**_“Sometimes, kindness is enough.”_ **

 

* * *

 

You feel guilty as Sans leads you through swampy fields of Echo Flowers, not giving a care as he tramples over the abandoned petals that fell to the wayside. The flowers repeat everything someone says to them.

Through your vision being eaten up and your strength being sapped, the walk through the fields is taking longer, meaning you have to listen to every last whisper, still ignoring that familiar sensation that a pair of eyes are watching you beyond your own guilt.

Ignoring the thrum of your heart, you hear a passing conversation:

_“One day, we will get revenge on those who trapped us here.”_

_“How?”_

_“One day, we will get the last human SOUL to break the barrier.”_

_“What happens then?”_

_“One day, King Asgore will become a God, and we will rise, and we will take the Surface back from the Surface. We will not trap them Underground and give them a chance to overthrow us again. “_

_“So what will they do?”_

**_“They will die with their faces shoved into the dirt.”_ **

Sans pulls you along—you didn’t even realise you’d stopped—and scoffs at your hesitance. “don’t even bother listening to those things, sweetheart. they’re nothin’ but death wishes.” You smile a little at him. He’s trying to make you feel better, no matter how gruff the delivery. It confuses Flowey to no end.

“...Thank you.” You mutter. His hand trembles, before interlocking with your fingers.

“...whatever. Just forget ‘em, that’ll be thanks enough.”

But you will remember them anyway because something in your mind isn’t going to let you forget their plight for deserved freedom.

 

* * *

Their plight manifests itself in the form of a Monster, clad-in-armour, not long after you pass through the field of blue flowers.

You and Sans stop with a start, he takes his hand away from you. For there she stands atop a craggy mount, red light breaching the distance as a howl of wind becomes her celebratory choir. Listen closely enough, the lyrics are turned to your own personal monody.

Sans shoves his hands in his pockets. “...You sure do love the dramatics, huh.”

“So it is true, then. You are with the human.” She summons a spear, holds it tightly in her grasp. “I didn’t want to believe it, Sans. When your brother _said…_ ” The warrior trails off in her speech, and it’s then you notice how worn-down her armour seems. Almost _old._ “Humans really are scary bastards. Sans, wait over there. I’ll deal with whatever this human has done to you later.”

... _Huh? What is she talking about?_

“The hell you talkin’ about, Undyne?”

“You’re a lot of things, Sans, but you aren’t an _idiot._ I know you wouldn’t willingly betray Papyrus. Whatever this _human,”_ she gestures to you with her spear, “has done to alter your mind to make you so subservient to them… don't worry. I’ll find a way to reverse it. But for now, please, **_stand down._** ”

Sans holds back a snort. “You think they’ve altered my _head?_ ”

“You want to offer me another explanation, then? D’you actually _want_ to get this human back to the Surface?” Sans shrugs off her question. A part of you wonders what the answer would have been to that, too. Undyne gestures to Flowey. “And what’s with the flower?”

He gives Flowey one knowing look. “...Household decoration.”

It’s not appropriate for you to think about the profanities Flowey spouts at Sans at that comment.

Undyne just scoffs at the three of you. “Right. Now, give me the real answer already.” She draws out another spear. “Or, what, are you trying to usurp your brother’s position in the Guard? You know whoever hands the human over to Asgore directly will be commended. Jealous of his achievements?”

“Right. An usurper.” There’s a strange bitterness in his voice. “Because that applies to me _so_ well. A lazy usurper. Makes sense, huh? ‘Course, maybe it runs in the family. You’d know all about that, huh?”

Undyne freezes. “Don’t you _dare._ ”

“Saw the kid you sent out to scout us, too. Didn’t realise you’d sunk so low since you lost… what, _everything?”_

“I didn’t _send_ them. They snuck out of school.” You can see the hint of sharp teeth where her mouth guard of her helmet flips up and she hisses. “Don’t you dare even _try_ to play that card with me, Sans. I’m giving you a chance to back down without me delivering you to your brother as _dust._ You’re a smart guy, right? So  maybe you should do the smart thing here and _shut up. ”_

Sans takes a step back and holds up his hands. Every muscle in your body tenses when he cups his chin.

_What is he going to say now…?_

“...y’know, ‘lil mx. sweetheart here is pretty stubborn, too.”

Undyne doesn’t move.

“...in fact, they’ve said a lot of the same stuff _you_ have, undyne. the resemblance is almost _uncanny._ ”

**“I’m warning you, Sans.”**

Sans grins wider. The amusement in his voice is undeniable. “...actually, now that i think about it, you two even _look_ similar. hold the phone on the death wishes—we might have ourselves a family reunion here!”

**_“YOU WANT TO FUCKING DIE?!”_ **

Sans doesn’t even flinch.

When he casts his gaze to focus on Undyne, she’s like a fish caught in a net.

“... **_after all, isn’t that what asgore once said you reminded him of?”_ **

. . .

**“SHUT UP!”**

The first spear hits you in the arm.

**_“SHUT UP!”_ **

The second in the abdomen.

**_“SHUT UP!”_ **

The third in the leg.

Over and over she pierces your flesh with the sharp-tipped magical spears until your bleeding your love all over Waterfall and laying down on the cold stone. The throbbing pain lasts until the world folds around you and your lullaby is Undyne’s crazed screams of denial and anger.

**_“I AM NOTHING LIKE A HUMAN!”_ **

 

* * *

 

 _( Is he afraid? Is he brave?_  
_We’ll never know for certain._  
_But one thing I know,_  
_One thing for sure_  
_Is that—” )_

 

* * *

You don’t know how to get past this.

You die, over and over again to Undyne. She talks to Sans, though he doesn’t taunt her this time, but no matter how much he blocks her spears, _one_ always gets through. They come in such a mass that Sans can’t block them all, Flowey can’t keep her distracted for long.

She’s vigilant, trained, _patient._

**_Determined._ **

Sans acts different every single time; different tactics, different maneuvers…

...by the time this timeline rolls around, the flowers are growing over both of your eyes. One is completely blinded, and the other is barely able to see anything in front of you.

You’ve picked up an old stick that was lying by the wayside to guide you, keep you steady on your feet when Flowey’s vines get too tired. He’s getting stronger in the healthier soil, though, but you don’t want to exhaust him more than you already have.

“...altered your mind? Or maybe you want to give me another explanation?”

“yeah. I’m madly in love with the buttercup here, and the human is our adopted pet. we’re going to start up a snail farm together and run the dapper-blook outta business.”

“Why are you such a smart alec?”

_Why do you keep giving different answers to her? Even as ridiculous as the are, you never give the same response twice. You’ve… got to remember something more than the others, right?_

The possibility occurred to you long ago, but it’s becoming more and more concrete each second that passes (or is rewound). Sans isn’t just an enigma; he’s _the_ enigma in this strange cycle. An anomaly, really.

He’s stalling Undyne a little longer this time, and this _is_ the part where you should either hide behind him or intervene (though that has only gotten you killed sooner) until you hear a rustling in the bushes behind you.

Sans doesn’t notice. Neither does Flowey. You grip your stick tighter.

“...or maybe you’re just that desperate to find a reason to stick it to me, eh? knowing that pap’s lazyass brother is placed higher on guard’s pantheon than you.”

Again, Undyne grows angry, and she—

_“Time to face the dust, glass bones!”_

…

It’s instinct when you respond.

Here’s how the scenario plays out:

Kid, the one from earlier, jumps out of the grassy marshes, spikes on his back poised to attack Sans.

Sans readies his hand to defend himself, Flowey responds in kind. But it’s _you_ that gets there first.

It’s instinct. Built up over years of experience.

You swing the stick, hoping to knock them out of the way of hurting Sans, _when_ —

It collides with their forehead, fracturing their skull. They stare down at you before their eyes roll into the back of their head, and they suddenly explode into dust. You’re coughing his remains in your lungs when you look down at your hands and drop the weapon and—

**_...N-No…_ **

Undyne saves you the trouble of the guilt killing you when she jumps down from her ledge and skewers you through the heart with no remorse.

 

* * *

 

_( … Humanity always has the potential to become killers._

_In that timeline, that Monster is dead._

**_And it’s your fault._ ** _)_

 

* * *

 

…

This time, you drop the stick into the abys below and just settle for shoving Kid out of the way. When he goes to attack again, you remain rooted to the spot, but your interference ends up giving Sans enough time to dodge out of the way of any attacks that would have killed you in an instant in the previous timelines even  _with_ prior notification. 

Sans moves out the way with dexterity and ease. He’s faster than you initially gave him credit for.

...

The three of you end up barely unscathed as you make a break for it, tumbling down the rivers of Waterfall until Undyne and Kid are nothing but small specks on the dark horizon.

 

* * *

 

( But the echoes continue to plague your head.

You killed them.

You _killed_ them.

**_You killed them._ **

**_AND IT’S ALL YOUR FAULT. )_ **

 

* * *

 

You know in this one you barely dodged the bullet of getting Flowey and Sans killed in this timeline, but you can’t forget the dust on your hands, and Sans...

...is helping you up like you just stumbled. You’re completely soaked as Sans hoists you up like you weigh nothing, even if your head is feeling heavy from the gravity of the fact that _you just killed a monster._

Suddenly, your stomach retches.

_I’m going to be sick._

The static in your arms means nothing as you violently rip yourself away from Sans and stumble backwards, backing against the protruding part of the wall to steady yourself.

“Frisk?” Flowey worries when you brush away his vines that usually steady you.

The flowers are eating up your vision, but you can still make out Sans’ red eyes. It has you breathing funny.

“you feeling alright, sweetheart?”

_You can’t._

You can't pretend this time. You can't pretend that everything is right and nothing is wrong with this situation anymore. You can’t see how Flowey and Sans looking at you at the moment(although you can hazard a guess), but you can’t fake a smile for them like you used to. The truth tastes like bile on your tongue, but you’ve got to cut it out before it burns your stomach from the inside.

You just _can’t._

“I...I almost…”

**_(I did. If it wasn’t for that Guard, I’d have been...)_ **

Sans sighs. Probably rolls his eyes to, knowing him. “yeah, and? we know you did. what else were you s’posed to do, eh? let them kill us where we stood? but it doesn’t matter now.” He goes to put a hand on your shoulder again, but you slap it away.

Your bottom lip is trembling. “Can’t forget about it. Can’t stop seeing their dust on my hands. Don’t hurt anyone, _ever._ Never on purpose. Never with intent to kill. Never. _Never._ ”

Sans is growing irritated with you. You can tell because he’s tapping his foot against the floor quickly. Usually, he’s too lazy to feel angry. “Correction, sugar: _you_ don’t hurt anyone. Not wanting to hurt anyone is all well and good, sweetheart, but we don’t really have a _choice_ if we’re going to be getting you to the surface. capiche? that’s why you fought back.”

_“...Always a choice.”_

“what?”

“Th-There’s always a choice. _Never_ have to hurt someone if you don’t want to.”

“A choice?” Sans claps a hand to his forehead and laughs at you. He’s laughing so loudly it’s like a lunatic’s howl. “Sweetheart, we don’t _have_ the luxuries of choices down here. Of all people, _especially_ you. Look, it’s time you get it through that head of yours: a good amount of monsters wants you _dead._ ”

When Flowey is quiet, he’s agreeing with Sans. He just doesn’t want to hurt you.

Yet, something pulsates in your bloodstream, and you feel your face grow hot. The foreign feeling taps at the front of your mind, knocking and pleading to be let in and take control. You’re gripping the rock walls so hard it cuts into your hands.

“ _No.”_

Sans stops laughing. That’s when the nerves begin to crawl up your spine. “No?”

“No!” Your breathing grows erratic. “We don’t hurt anyone on purpose. Never kill anyone, never send them to their deaths. _Never, never._ Only creates more hurt and more pain to fight and hurt. The endless cycle of pain. Need to take another road.”

“Another—are you _insane?_ Everyone here wants you dead!”

“I know they do.”

“Then why are you constantly…? Why the _hell_ do you keep insisting on being kind to the monsters who just want to hurt you? It’s only going to keep getting you _killed_! I don’t get it. Jeez, kid, I’ve seen a lot of weird shit in my day, but I don’t _understand_ you _._ Do you _want_ to be a liability to yourself, sweetheart? To us?”

You flinch. You’re shaking. You’re _crying_.

“N-No, of course not! I just—”

“This isn’t the kind of world you can afford to be passive in anymore, sweetheart! It just _isn’t!_  Do you want to hear your little flower friend here get ripped to shreds because you refuse to fight? **_Is that it?!”_ **

**_Shut up._ **

_Shut up_

_shut up_

_shut_ **_up_ **

**_SHUT UP_ **

**_SHUT UP_ **

“N-No, of course, I don’t want Flowey _or_ you to get hurt! I don’t want anyone to get hurt because of me anymore! All I want is for—!”

“Sans, you’re making Frisk upset, will you please just _shut up_ for once—? _”_

Your mind is breaking. Cracks in the mask.

 _Shut up_ **, _please._ **

“Do you want to _die_ before you reach the surface?”

“Sans—”

“Is that it?”

“Sans, _for Asgore’s sake,_  stop it!”

“So you wanna _die_ here in this _hellhole? Is that it?”_

“Sans!”

_“IS IT?!”_

**“** **_I don’t care where I die anymore! What difference would it make? You think this is the first time I’ve died? The first time I’ve seen myself meet my end?”_ **

“ _Then you’ve got a pretty sick imagination there then, Sweetheart!_ ”

**_“Hah? You think I’m that creative? Get it through your head, Sans: THIS WORLD WON’T LET ME DIE NO MATTER HOW MUCH I WANT TO!”_ **

Everything shatters. The mask falls, everything is left raw and real.

Your bones won’t stop shaking, and you’re scared for a moment that your skeleton will leap right out of your body.

Will it have flowers on it, too? Or will your bones have become branches instead?

“...so you really _are_ the anomaly causing all the recent time shifts.”

Flowey’s head snaps around. “You _know_ about that _?_ How much do you remember?”

Sans ignores Flowey. Your shaking body doesn’t look up at him, but everything begins to clock in your head at the sound of his laughter. Broken, hoarse, and so very, _very_ tired. “Should’ve figured it’d be a fucking _human_ messing around with this stuff. Wanted to attribute it to major Deja Vu first, y’know? Makes that shit easier to cope with.”

Your fingers scrape against the wall as you curl your hand into a fist. The teal ribbon frays more. “I...guessed. That you remembered.”

Sans’ breathing ends up wavering. The air whistles through his teeth. The tension is so thick, you could try cutting it with your fingernails and not even make a scratch.

“... _How?_ ”

“At first, it was just at your sentry station.” The words are rolling off your tongue so fast, you’re not sure your beating heart can keep up. “Your reactions were different. Other people have echoes of remembering other timelines, but _you_ were… an enigma. Then there was when we went to Grillby’s all those times. You… began asking me different questions, you looked more and more tired and… I began thinking of the possibility that you might remember. The spears that killed me earlier basically confirmed it, but I wanted to hear it from you.”

You can barely hear anything over the sound of your laboured breathing and thrumming heartbeat. Bells ring in your ears (or maybe it’s shaking flower petals). Flowey is completely still. He's still processing it all, you reason with yourself.

And Sans?

You don’t _want_ to look up at him, but you do anyway.

His eye sockets are devoid of light as he grins at you. Then, his left one begins to catch fire, the red light trailing out of the socket and focusing like a predator on its prey. Sans raises a hand, snaps his fingers, cloaking his fingers in the same flames of anger.

“ _You knew.”_

You take a step back.

Sans begins to laugh again. Each sound crawls up your spine. You shrink into the bandanna. “I fucking… you _knew?_ All that time, you knew that I could remember. All this _fucking_ time. Is that why you singled me out, huh? Said that spiel about “everyone being a good person if they just try”? Nah, nobody believes in that stuff. You just wanted someone else to cover your sorry ass, didn’t you?”

“N-No! I...”

_“Well, not anymore, sweetheart. I ain’t gonna play your sick little game.”_

“S-Stop calling me that. I’m Frisk. _Frisk._ ” Your hands claw in your hair. “My name is Frisk. _My name is Frisk._ My name is Frisk, my name is Frisk, _my name is_ **_Frisk—_** _!”_

**_(Everything’s so dark…)_ **

You yell, turning to scramble away from the veil of red that cloaks Sans’ previously approachable demeanor, the noise swallowed when you fall over on the ground, smacking your face on the stone. You sit up quickly and shuffle on your hands, the flower petals trembling.

Flowey, all thorns and fangs and hissed words, acts as a barrier between you and Sans the moment he elevates himself from the soil. “You dare even _think_ about laying a finger on them, and I’ll _shatter your bones where you stand._ ”

There’s an interlude of silence between the three of you for just a single moment until Sans claps a hand to his forehead.

“Oh, this is fucking _priceless._ ” Sans is laughing again. Why does he have to laugh? It’s making all the flowers scared. “You honestly think you can protect them, buttercup? You’re nothing more than a fucking decoration to them. But speaking of that, how _many_ times have you let them die, huh?”

**_(I can’t see Flowey, I can’t see Sans… they’re mad at each other again.)_ **

Flowey says nothing, although a muted growl seeps from behind his teeth.

Sans scoffs. “Yeah. Just like I thought. You’re both fucking _hypocrites,_ through-and-through.” Sans raises his hand, fingers ready to snap. “So, why don’t you do me a favour and _get out of the way?”_

Sans snaps his fingers.

…

Nothing happens.

**_(I hate it._ **

**_I HATE IT_ **

**_I HATE THIS.)_ **

_“What the fuck.”_

Flowey giggles, and you hear him forming a ring of pellets surrounding the two of you. They're probably hovering in a circle, spinning like the SAVE stars. “For someone who berates _my_ intelligence, you’re pretty stupid. You should know that SOUL manipulation doesn’t work _**i**_ ** _f you don’t have a SOUL to begin with_ ** _._ ”

Sans’ normally sealed-jaw hangs wide open open. “No way. You have _got_ to be fucking _kidding_ me.”

“Actually, I’m not _“fucking kidding me”_ .” 

Their voices are static. Your mind is full of electric.  _Why does it hurt so much._

“I’m Flowey the flower, _and you’re about to regret ever threatening to harm my friend after they **trusted** you. _ ”

Everything’s so _dark_ now. You can barely see out of your left eye now.

“I...”

You need to see.

“...Frisk? Why are you...”

You need to _see_ them _._

“The hell are they doing?”

But you know that there’s only one way to do that.

“...Frisk, what are you—”

Your hands clamp around the flowers on your eyes. You hear thousands of pellets drop the ground and evaporate into dust. A ring of dust. Maybe it’ll catch fire.

“Frisk, wait! Remember what happened last time—please, _please_ listen to me, please, _don’t—!”_

You don’t listen.

You rip the stems from your eyes and your vision turns red and—

**— _oh god, why didn’t anyone say that it would hurt this much all I wanted to do was see through my own eyes again I am tired of being blind but this is the only way I can see again and—_**

—and you keep tearing the flowers away from your eyes over and over again stem by stem until there’s so much blood and it splatters and flies everywhere all over the ribbon and the bandanna and your hands are covered in bloody yellow petals that squelch under your clenched fists—

**— _and if I keep going my eyes will be able to see again but the pain doesn’t stop and Flowey won’t stop crying out for me to cut it out and—_**

**_“FRISK!”_ **

Flowey rips your hands away from your head with his vines, making more flowers tear from your skin and splatter his leaves with your blood.

Everything is… _red._

Flowey stares at you, wide-eyed, but you’re too spaced out to focus on him.

You can’t focus on anything.

Sans is still standing there, hand slowly going back down to his side—

_No, wait, he is coming forward again—_

“ _STAY BACK.”_

Flowey notices, shouts at Sans not to take another step towards you. You’re trembling as you stand back up, taking a step backwards and holding your hands to your chest.

Your eyes dart around.

Behind you, there’s a clear way to run, to get _away_ from this godforsaken place—

“Frisk, you don’t need to go near him again, so just… we’ll go somewhere safe, okay? Far away from him. We could even go back to the Ruins if you want.”

Far away? Far away from this pit of hell? That sounds really good. You like that idea.

**_( But I’ll just hurt Flowey if you stay near him too long… )_ **

You’re no longer moving forward.

You take a step back, and another, until you’re away from the solid foundations of rock and onto a wooden platform. Some sort of bridge. The panels creak under your weight.

“Frisk!” Flowey sounds scared when he calls out to you. “Frisk, don’t move, it’s not safe there! I’m coming to get you, hold on!”

You’ve never been good at that.

“frisk, hold on—”

_“YOU STAY OUT OF THIS.”_

Fear spikes your heart. You pivot on your heel and turn to run away when—

 _“_ **_FRISK!”_ **

**_…_ **

**_(Where did the floor go?)_ **

 

* * *

 

You don’t hear the end of the song until you accidentally touch a torn blue petal caught in the stems of your own buttercups whilst you’re falling.

 

* * *

 

**_“his heart is forever broken.”_ **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few notes on this chapter:
> 
> 1) - **“Your people trapped us down here.” The guilt calls, taking its place on your shoulder. “What right do you have to want to get out alive, to call this jail cell beautiful?”** \- Frisk is not a happy SOUL in this story, and their guilt for their race being the one to trap the Monsters Underground seems to be catching up with them. ...Intentional?  
>  2) - **"Sans toys with the SAVE star on the chain around his neck. "This thing is what enables me to travel like that."** \- Sans travels through SAVE stars to teleport. Can't travel through the ones in shards, though.  
>  3) - **"Seven new flowers in full blossom and these blooms are bigger than the others."** \- Each hit is on one of the seven chakras. I thought the idea was neat. ^^  
>  4) - **"Red Death is paying a visit."** \- The "omen" song is a reference to the "Red Death" poem by SociopathicArchangel. And yes, I did write it.  
>  5) - **“Call her a reject all you want, but at least she’s not the one traipsing around with that flesh-sack. And at least she’s not related to an usurper.”** \- It's implied Undyne has lost her standing with the Royal Guard in this verse. Seems like she's got an avid supporter in Kid, however. Undyne's hatred of humanity runs deep. VERY deep. That has been passed on to Kid.  
>  6) - **"In the haze, you run over to the makeshift cage of bones, and kick one of the bones so hard it cracks in half."** \- This is the first instance we see Frisk's determination physically, rather than mentally. Believe me, those bones are not easy to crack.  
>  7) - **“...you really are all goodness and starshine, aren’t you.”** \- "Starshine". Sans really has built up the whole "pure and good" image of Frisk, hasn't he? I hope nothing destroys it.  
>  8) - **"You can barely make out the outlines of a cracked pencil, the tip of it speckled with red ink, lying next to a chipped dagger. Both are half-submerged in water."** \- Is the pen truly mightier than the sword? Pens still have a sharp edge, and daggers can carve words into stone.  
>  9) - **“You’re a lot of things, Sans, but you aren’t an idiot. I know you wouldn’t willingly betray Papyrus.” Whatever this human,” she gestures to you with her spear, “has done to alter your mind to make you so subservient… I’ll find a way to reverse it."** \- Undyne might be cast out of the Royal Guard for whatever reason, but she knows about the brother's relationship more than they themselves let on. Sans would never willingly BETRAY Papyrus, just mess with him. Undyne does not trust humanity. At all. (She's also read up on hypnosis.)  
>  10) - **“... after all, isn’t that what asgore once said you reminded him of?”** \- ... Asgore once said, when Undyne was a child, in a crowd of people that Undyne reminded him of a "certain" human. Not "humanity".  
>  11) - **"You’re coughing his remains in your lungs when you look down at your hands and drop the weapon and—"** \- Frisk does have the strength necessary to kill a Monster in one hit. With a stick. ...Not because they had the intent to kill, but because they wanted to protect someone they had grown to care about.  
>  12) - **Yet, something pulsates in your bloodstream, and you feel your face grow hot. The foreign feeling taps at the front of your mind, knocking and pleading to be let in and take control. You’re gripping the rock walls so hard it cuts into your hands. "No."** \- Frisk has had this sort of defiance before, back when Toriel refused to let them out and tried to change the subject. Just like them blurting out about how the world "refuses" to let them die, Frisk is just as capable of getting frustrated and angry as any person forced into their sort of situation. Sans and Frisk are at odds with each other; Frisk unintentionally (or intentionally with misguided harm) singled Sans out with the hope they could find someone to relate to; Sans, in turn, was treading on thin and dangerous new territory for trusting someone, but also built up an unhealthy image of Frisk's "pure goodness", and reacted violently when that image was shattered. "Let us meander around our falsehoods" INDEED.  
>  13) - **"You should know that SOUL manipulation doesn’t work if you don’t have a SOUL to begin with."** \- ...How can Sans use his powers against and enemy that doesn't even have the core of what a Monster is supposed to have, hm?


	7. WATERFALL II  - where does the river flow? surely to the sea?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Waters make the perfect lullaby.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, a lot of you may be wondering why this chapter is so short compared to the rest of the chapters I've done. Well... a few reasons. A lot of things have happened to me in the past few weeks—namely, my step-sister, for some reason, has run away, cut off all contact, and says she no longer wants to live with us. We have NO idea why, and there's a large possibility she's not coming back. She's safe(ish) for now, but... yeah. It's made it so bad I physically cannot go home because of all the negative atmosphere in the house.
> 
> I do want to thank all the wonderful reviews I got for the last chapter, though. I just... hope I didn't disappoint with this one. I KNOW it's short, maybe not my best writing, but I still tried to give it so it explored Frisk's dilemma. Please let me know if you liked this chapter, or suggest what I could improve on--but most of all, I do hope you enjoy this chapter. ^_^

 

* * *

 

**CHAPTER SEVEN**

** — **

**WATERFALL II** **  
** _**(where does the river flow? surely to the sea?)**_

 

* * *

Parts of your mind are still broken when you finally wake up.

Your hand suddenly claws onto a protruding Echo Flower’s stems, rooting your hand as your battered body grinds to a halt from the rapids. Cold spears your fingertips as your shaking body uses everything it has left to tuck your body against the damp riverbed until only your scarred legs remain in the water.

Your chest heaves ice, coughing until you feel like you’re free from drowning in your own lungs. Blood still trickles down your cheeks.  

However far you drifted down the river, you’re not too sure. Everything you see now is a blurry mess; the flowers have eaten your vision until all you can picture is one measly speck of light. You’re just laying there and staring up at the cyan bokeh as the cold from the water seeps into your skin.

Silence. Unless you’ve gone deaf, too.

You pat your ears with your trembling hands. Numbness, perhaps, but there is nothing else there but smooth skin.

No flowers.

You dig one finger on either hand into your ears until your skin begins to come up with pinpricks of blood. Your nails chip away lightly at the skin.

_No flowers._

Fingernails become claws as you prey on your own pain; scratching and uprooting blood and skin tissue and hair. Whimpers come from your pouted lips.

**_No flowers._**

**_NO GOLDEN FLOWERS._ **

After that pointless charade of frantic panic, your labored breathing begins to waver once again, and you curl in on yourself like a tightly-folded flower bud. Arms wrap around your legs, you’ve curled into a ball and you don’t want to get up anymore.

.

.

.

.

The water splashes around flower-speckled legs. Beckoning a fragile mind.

 _It wouldn’t take much time._ You reason, stupidly, kicking your feet around in the water and watching the ripples as they spread out before… disappearing into nothingness. _Just a few minutes, then my mind would black out. It’d be like going to sleep. A peaceful sleep. Every other time I’ve died, I’ve been murdered or killed by accident._

_Maybe if I did it myself, then all this would finally end._

Images enter your mind without your consent as you shift around, your face and chest now facing the water rather than your legs. Of Flowey smiling and laughing and enjoying the healthy Surface soil and the rays of bright sunshine, like you promised yourself he would after all this was finally over, after everything you continued to put him through, and . . .

Your hand twitches.

. . . _Sans_.

You don’t even know what his hopes and dreams are, or what he pictures his future to be like in a world like this, but wouldn’t you like to find out so you can grant finally his wishes? You know how much you hurt him, so shouldn’t you keep going to repent for what you did to him?

.

.

.

**_“...Why should I even bother trying, when all I ended up doing was hurting them both so much in the end?”_ **

.

.

.

The odd fact about the wonderful oddity known as death; it’s silent as it snatches your life away. The desperation for life is what is loud; the thrashing arms, the screaming lungs, the burning desire to feel another spark of pain—all of those basic carnal desires _begging_ the mind to keep fighting for life.

But death itself is quiet. Like water, it floods the body until nothing but an empty shell remains.

In the water, you feel yourself drifting. It’s funny how, the further down you go into the murky depths, the more your lungs feel like fire. It sets alight to everything; your common sense, your mind, the very nature of your humanity—until all you can feel is the water burning your flesh to a crisp and the fire scalding over the scars.

You’re drifting.

There’s no gravity under the seat, but you are not able to fly. You’re just adapting to the environment, like spacemen on the moon. Can you swim amongst the stars?

You can’t open your eyes.

It’s . . . like you’re falling asleep.

It’s so peaceful.

It’s so silent.

.

.

.

_**It’s so... lonely.** _

_._

_._

_._

**_(  Once upon a time, a dying star fell into the dark basement of time._ **

Some eyes become fixated on the lights stuck on the Earth’s glass ceilings. Others try to combine the rays of sunshine with the rest of the solar system. Either way, they are always drawn to the stars. Perhaps for the illusion of permanence that they give off? People's gazes—of all kinds—gravitate upwards and drift into a mental oblivion, captivated by the fantasy that, for one moment, everything can be bigger than our small souls and minds, that the words we say and the lights we follow can last forever.

Of course, stars are not immortal beings–it is funny to think of them as “alive”, for they are technically nothing but burning gas stuck in an airless void. And yet, do you not find it wonderful that they can indeed live forever, depending on what angle you look at them from in this ever-expanding universe of inverted expectations?

As with everything, the definitions of both life and death is completely dependent on personal, conscious perspective.

**_(“I think, therefore I am.”)_ **

Words that wind around minds like whistling winds lulled into time’s basement, the rocks on the floor eroded away by the dying seas of time. It will not be long before those waters will catch fire, devouring the laws of the universe until butterfly wings are the ones who create tornadoes and flames scald the skin, not burn it.

Words are subjective and perspectives are conscious, but the one thing that still makes sense in this hell of fire and brimstone is that the waters forever flow, caught on fire or murmuring indecipherable words. Time’s basement is a wonderful, confusing chapter in your little story of repeated deaths and hollow definitions of life, but you cannot stop the rivers from flowing.

You are but a falling, dying star, whose light is dimmed as your lungs become suffocated by temporal waters.

_**So it is time for you to wake up, and to stop dreaming of words that do not belong in your head. )** _

 

* * *

_You need to wake up._

_(“But…”)_

_._

_._

_._

**_You need to wake up now, Frisk._ **

**_(“...I don’t know…”)_ **

**_._ **

**_._ **

**_._ **

**_YOU NEED TO WAKE UP AND STAY DETERMINED FRISK._ **

**_._ **

**_._ **

**_._ **

**_(“THEN STOP WITH THE STORIES AND TELL ME HOW TO LIVE!”)_ **

 

* * *

You now know what you need to do.

The word for the feeling you felt every single time you watched one of those SAVE stars spins comes back, heating up your blood so much you could breathe out its fire. They’re a cog in the mechanical machine that is the human body, and you will not waste a second of clockwork on looking more than twice at the way it spins.

Even as you gasp and fill your body with more water, the flowers on your body _bloom._

Arms thrash about as you try and synchronize your body with the will to _live._

You’re so weak, you could let your SOUL drift away…

**( _But it REFUSED.)_**

Your arms move like a marionette caught on its own strings, be them controlled by fate’s design or your own making, the one thing they cannot stop you from doing is _moving._

Your body thrashes, water clogging your ears and murmuring your movements into one incoherent underwater splash—

_Oh, God, where is the air?_

Your fingers cannot claw water but dear _heavens_ do they try —

Water is not glass, it does not need to be _shattered,_ only breached —

Your hands are not spears, they are _cups,_ so your palms cup instead of claws and you _caress_ the water, not fight _against_ it —

Your legs and arms synchronize with death—you carry on, you _dance_ within the waters, and something **—** _something_ in this world must feel sorry enough for you to give you _mercy — _

_._

_._

_._

_(Just a child, you learned that nobody cares what you have to say **—** _ _  
_ **_“Tell me some poetry, sweetheart.”)_ **

Your hand reaches upwards—

 

 _(Just a teenager, you learned to never expect friendship **—** _ _  
_ **_“You’re about to regret ever threatening to harm my friend.”)_ **

You feel the cold air settle on your skin—

Lifting your head out of the water, you gasp—

 _(Just a young adult, you learned that all is lost **—** _ _  
_ **_“Stay determined.”)_ **

 

Gulping the freezing air and feeling it freeze over your windpipe into your lungs—

 

**_And you BREATHE._ **

 

* * *

 

_._

.

.

Your blue sweater clings to your body like a leech as you haul yourself out of the water, coughing and spluttering and shaking until you collapse on the wet, earthy bank.

It’s not long before you start crying.

_“Why couldn’t I just end it…? Why does this world refuse to let me die?”_

Nobody will answer those questions for you yet, and you know this already. You’re blinded by the golden flowers, frozen to the bone, and potentially going to die from hypothermia, and the odds have never been in your favour.

But something inside of you still continues to burn _brightly_.

You unfurl out of your tightly-huddled ball and instead, you choose to roll over to lie straight on your back. Not even your feet are touching the waters deep, now. It's a discovery when you find that, even with the petals obstructing your vision, you can still faintly recall clusters of bioluminescent cyan crystals stuck to the ceilings of Waterfall. They’re all bunched together now, lights in the backdrop of an unfocused lens.

Your breathing begins to even out. Blue always calms you down.

Both Flowey, and Sans, just seem so very far away now. The fight, the intensity, the betrayal and heartache… it’s all washing away with the sounds of the river. You half-expect them to waltz near you, to continue bickering and explaining and competing for the upper hand in whatever game they concocted out of unease and mistrust to do _good_ by someone else.

That someone else being . . . you.

You sigh, wiping your eyes, only to realize the flowers are already there mopping up your tears. Sans was right about you. You _did_ want someone else that understood near you. You _did_ intentionally pick him to get closer to. ...But Flowey was also right in protecting you. ...You also remember that he _did_ kill you. He owed you _one_ decent conversation, at least.

... _Still. I still need to… set this right, maybe. With both of them._

Slowly, you sit back up and put your hands to rest on your knees. The teal ribbon on your wrist is cold, but still there. So is the bandanna.

_For now, I need to think it over, but I need... I need to find a way to keep moving forward._

Waterfall is still so very, _very,_ silent, aside from the running waters. Trickling streams gently winding their way around rocks and tree branches, forgetting the SOUL nearly taken captive by the lure of _the end._ Yet… you’re not dying.

You’re still alive.

**And despite everything, it’s still you.**

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **1) — "Fingernails become claws as you prey on your own pain; scratching and uprooting blood and skin tissue and hair. Whimpers come from your pouted lips." —** Frisk's mind is still somewhat broken from the aftermath of the fight with Sans. Common sense isn't working for them, so they use pain to ground themself. ...This isn't the first time they used pain to try and bring themself back down to reality.  
>  **2) — "Images enter your mind without your consent as you shift around, your face and chest now facing the water rather than your legs." —** Sometimes things will slip in through the cracks of Frisk's broken mind—things they don't consent to, things they shouldn't know. A trick of the subconscious, or something else? The image of Frisk playfully splashing their feet in the water was also a way to evoke that, despite them not being a child, there is still a sense of childlike wonder and innocence that remains in this broken SOUL.  
>  **3) — "It’s lonely." —** Frisk might thing they happen to be better off away from Flowey and Sans, but like most people, they do not want to be alone.  
>  **4) — "Once upon a time, a dying star fell into the dark basement of time." —** Frisk has been likened to a star many times during the run of the story. The Underground is a place BRIMMING with trapped magic. Who says whatever falls from the sky has to be an angel of death or mercy?  
>  **5) — "It will not be long before those waters will catch fire, devouring the laws of the universe until butterfly wings are the ones who create tornadoes." —** This is a reference to the "butterfly effect", or Chaos Theory. It refers to a small, seemingly insignificant event—say, the flap of a butterfly's wings—can be a part of an even larger-scale event—like a tornado. Much like how time travel, one ripple in the seas of time can create a flood in other areas of the temporal rifts. Who do we know is messing around with time? (No, it is not Frisk. They have no CONTROL over their RESETs.)  
>  **6) — "YOU NEED TO WAKE UP AND STAY DETERMINED FRISK. / (“THEN STOP WITH THE STORIES AND TELL ME HOW TO LIVE!”)" —** Is Frisk... arguing with their own thoughts via the use of the narration? They must really be at war with their... thoughts. Hm. The narrator refers to Frisk by name, though. ...I wonder...?  
>  **7) — "AND YOU BREATHE." —** Their determination has come home.  
>  **8) — "I need to find a way to keep moving forward." —** Frisk knows they need to keep moving forward, something that has been told both by the narration, by Flowey, and once by Sans. To move forward this time, however, Frisk almost took an inescapable step-backwards. Sometimes we need that fear to realise how much we want to cling to life. I just hope nobody else resorts to the way Frisk did it.


	8. gilded star (poem insert)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel bad for the lack of updates. Have a small something for the meanwhile. I am still writing this. ^_^ Call it a prelude of things to come. :)

**Gilded Soul  
** **When will you return?  
** **Shadows are cast  
** **But without you  
** **There is no light.**

**  
Oh, my sweet gilded star,**

**_Please_ ,**

**  
Patch up your heart  
And rise from the soil.**

** **

 

 

 

 

**_… We’re waiting for you._ **

 


	9. PSA - Story Renovation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Please read.

[ **https://underfart-snas.tumblr.com/post/155403921417/official-flowerfell-psa** ](https://underfart-snas.tumblr.com/post/155403921417/official-flowerfell-psa)

 

(Read this before my notice is done.)

So, if you guys haven't heard, SivioSanei (underfart-snas, aka the great mind behind Flowerfell), has issued out a statement saying that all Flowerfell works, bar fanart, should be removed. And after the way the fandom has treated them? I don't fucking blame them. However, that begs the question: what happens to this story?

As you guys know, I love this story. I absolutely adore the AU. So, I am going to comply with Sanei's wishes, but I was extremely saddened to think that all this effort I put in would be for nothing.

HOWEVER.

I have contacted Sanei asking that I, with heavy modification and still with the inclusion of the flower curse, be allowed to keep this story as long as it doesn't stray too closely to Overgrowth or Flowerfell. 

And they said yes, so long as, and I directly quote:

_"You’re welcome to leave the story as an Underfell related work, but yes please refrain from it being anything like Overgrowth or any of the other official Flowerfell works."_

**So here's the plan:**

**In a few days, this story is going to be deleted. But it won't be gone forever.**

_**IT'S GOING THROUGH SOME HEAVY MODIFICATIONS.** _

**And hopefully, I'll be able to get toward a closer vision to my original intention with this story. Some changes will include:**

  * more time with toriel in the first chapter
  * the flower curse will no longer be  _buttercups,_ but _echo flowers._
  * **_frisk will not be able to reload. they will die. they return to save stars, not random points. THIS IS A PLOT POINT I DIDN'T MAKE CLEAR IN ASTERLIGHT._**
  * frisk will spend more time solo. sans will be shadowing them, like in the original game.
  * more sans and papyrus interactions, witnessed by frisk.
  * _more flowey and frisk interactions._
  * chapters will be longer.  _a lot longer._
  * frisk will no longer be referencing the "always be kind" mantra. however, i will still pay homage to it. 
  * there will be heavy emphasis on the lost souls, flowey and toriel's past to them, and i will be referencing a lot of myths and legends.
  * _**sans will no longer call frisk "sweetheart". "sugar", maybe. but "sweetheart" is the STAPLE name of frisk in the flowerfell au, and i would feel uncomfortable using that name in the context of asterlight. in asterlight, frisk is "STARSHINE".**_
  * frisk will be spending more time with other main characters. this story, whilst having focus, meandered way too much. i want to give the characters more depth, and i want the imagery to ooze with personality. 



**If you don't like this recent development, well, I'm sorry. But I am doing this to respect the creator of a story that I happen to love, and I am so, so ashamed of the way people have reacted. This is THEIR WORK, NOT YOURS OR MINE.**

**The only thing I own is Asterlight. Asterlight will be an _Underfell_ story, with  _very few minor inspirations_ from Flowerfell. Aside from the Flower curse, however,  _it will be a lot different._**

**And, honestly, I'm kind of excited.**

**^_^**

*** ~ Leemix.**


End file.
